


Renascence

by MilkTeaMiku



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Dystopia, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-12 21:21:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 41,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7123048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MilkTeaMiku/pseuds/MilkTeaMiku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The After was created to eradicate the imperfection of The Before. In The After, the world is perfect - every crease, every corner, every person. There is no pain, no hunger, no anger, no war.</p><p>And no soulmates.</p><p>That is, until an illegal implant called the SoulBand starts to arise. Desperate to understand The Before and those who lived with imperfections, Bilbo seeks out a SoulBand for himself, despite knowing that he is breaking the Rules. And once a Rule has been broken, there is no turning back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ONE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Renascence_ \- the revival of something that has been dormant.

After the Fell Winter, soulmates were done away with. It wasn’t only after the Fell Winter, however, but it was after the Desolation of Smaug, the Battle of the Fire Armies, the Eruption of Mount Doom... It was after everything, after all the things that had come to ruin the earth, all the wars and the corruption and the betrayal. The world had to be cleansed; humanity had to start over right from the very basics.

They collectively came to call it The After, because that was exactly what it was. After the war, the world became perfect. The world became a specimen of quality, of process and improvement and rebirth that had come to be absent of even a single flaw. It was pure, simple, transparent _perfection._

Perhaps a better name for it was regulation.

The After left things _regulated._ Left the world a place of control and management and symmetry. For all intents and purposes, each function of living was set in place with equality as its main purpose, and that included the function of humans, too. Everything, all parts of the world, were now perfect. Regulated. Education, medicine, the government. Media, publishing, the workforce and even the air that they breathed. All of it was carefully controlled, carefully supervised and carefully administered, even right down to the way houses on a street looked and who married who.

Perhaps that was why The After felt like how The Before sounded. 

Soulmates – or the concept of them, at least – seemed like a whispered story, one that should never be told for fear of retribution. It was a concept that seemed frightening to think about because if one did, then surely all the wrong people would hear their thoughts. To think of stories like that, of soulmates, was a forbidden temptation, was one they should never consider.

So they didn’t.

But that didn’t mean they did nothing about it.

If soulmates were real, or had been real, then Bilbo wanted to know about them. In the forbidden stories, there were always ways to tell who was one’s soulmate – matching tattoos, hair that changed colour, a timer ticking down on a wrist… If they were real, then those who wished to seek a soulmate out had to find other ways to do it, because it was different now. There was no place for marks in skin and abnormalities in The After. It wasn’t perfection. The world was different. It was The After, and all things were regulated. 

Nothing was left up to chance, because if humanity had the chance to choose, then they would always choose wrong.

As he grew older, Bilbo thought that making mistakes wasn’t as daunting as he’d been taught it would be. He thought that maybe the world would seem a little more beautiful if there were mistakes. If he had a name for the coldness in his chest when he was awake at a very late hour, if he knew what people had done to soothe their shaking during The Before, if he could explain to someone else why they made his fingers tingle – surely, then, wouldn’t The After be more perfect? Perfect in its imperfections. 

As it was, imperfection didn’t exist. Imperfection led to rule breaking. Rule breaking led apologies, to discipline, to punishment. Breaking a rule meant that one had to be forgiven, or that had to be _reassigned to Elsewhere._

Elsewhere sounded nice, if only he knew where it was, and what people did there. They were taught that going to Elsewhere meant one of two things – the first was the pleasant one, the one where a person had earned the right to live there, to observe all of its perfections and all the luxuries it had to those who deserved it. The Elderly and the Exceptional went to Elsewhere. The other Elsewhere, however, was for retribution, for punishment. For _reassignment._

It sounded less like _reassignment_ and more like _reconditioning._

He didn’t know what The Before had that had been taken away by The After, but he greatly missed whatever it was. It was as though someone had taken a piece of him, one he had never quite noticed, and reassigned it to Elsewhere, to a place he could never go. When he thought about it for any duration of time, a hole opened up in his chest, one that he didn’t know the words to explain. Even though he’d press his hand over his heart just to doubt check it was still beating regularly, the feelings were still impossible to describe. He simply did not know the right words, did not know if they existed.

He thought that perhaps the missing piece might, in fact, be a soulmate – that the stories were true, and the piece of him that was missing had always belonged to another. There weren’t many people that thought the same things as Bilbo, but there must be some. For all its glaring perfection, The After wouldn’t need words like _reassignment_ and _discipline_ if there were no problems to fix.

Bilbo’s assigned work was at the Mending Centre. There he fixed scraped knees and diagnosed fevers and made sure that birth mothers were healthy. He was not a doctor, not yet, but that seemed to be the career path that had been chosen for him. Though he wasn’t sure why he was assigned to the Mending Centre at his Ascension Ceremony, the ceremony from which all students in his age bracket were assigned their pre-careers, he didn’t particularly dislike it. There wasn’t anything he particularly disliked – it was all too perfect.

He’d heard of something, just fleetingly, once before at the Mending Centre. It had been spoken in hushed voices that spoke no more than a few words before suddenly disappearing. Something called a SoulBand. The SoulBands, they were… curious. Or was it he that was the curious thing? The concept of _curiosity_ was still foreign, and hard to grasp. It was a word he’d overheard, not learned, and he did not quite know what it meant. With his work at the Mending Centre, he was allowed the opportunity to meet many people. Rarely, a person would be different. Being different in itself was rare and curious, too. 

The people that were different were the ones who had a SoulBand. It was an unnoticeable _something,_ a _something_ inserted into their skin just under their wrists. When he touched their skin, he felt it, pressing upwards. Perhaps if anyone else had done the same it would have gone unnoticed, but he knew better. He knew better than to say anything about it, too, but when he realised what they could do... 

Suddenly, finding a way to get one for himself was an idea that consumed him. A SoulBand was forbidden, for it was breaking a rule. Breaking a rule would lead to _reassignment._ But breaking a rule would lead to a soulmate. Was it the right thing to do, to find a soulmate? He might have been unable to keep the soulmate if he did. In the end, who he married and who he had a family with was not for him to decide. His choice would lead to imperfection.

Imperfection was starting to seem a little more desirable.

In the end, it had been easy to find where to SoulBands were coming from. He cornered a patient, held their wrist, and they just knew that Bilbo was aware of the tiny _something_ that would lead them to their soulmate hidden in their skin. He wanted one for himself, and when he knew where to get one, it had abruptly seemed quite obvious. 

In their perfect society, there was one outstanding person who was so different from the rest that it was easy to believe he was nothing spectacular. Thinking of him and not thinking of him were the very same thing, for he was important, but he was also no one significant. He was replaceable. Expendable. He was called The Holder of Conscious, and he did not have to follow the same rules as all the others. Before, he had been a she, and before she, she had been a he. There was always a Holder of Conscious. As the only person who was different, it made sense that he would be the one to gift soulmates. He could help.

Yes, imperfection had become desirable, and Bilbo wanted it.


	2. TWO

The Holder of Conscious was a strange man who lived in an equally strange place. It was the kind of strangeness that one did not speak about, because if no one spoke of it then surely it would not exist. And it didn’t, not in The After. They all knew that The Holder existed, for he was real and visible, but his home was not. It was too imperfect in its transparent perfections.

Among their Community, all the houses were kept together in the residential district. Bilbo lived in number seventy-three. His neighbour, Hamfast, lived in a house exactly identical to Bilbo’s, only it was numbered seventy-four. Next to him was Bell, in number seventy-five. It was ordered, structured, neat. Perfect. Regulated.

The Holder of Conscious and his strange house were not regulated. He did not live in the residential district, but rather he lived in no district. It was not important, and therefore it did not have a name. Bilbo did not know where to place it in his thoughts. Similarly, The Holder’s house was different, and it did not look like a house. It did not look like anything – perhaps it did not look like anything Bilbo had the words to describe or name. It stood alone far from the Community, but not so far that one could not take their bike down the road if they should ever need him or his guidance.

No one ever needed him.

No one who did not know about SoulBands, that is. Bilbo knew about SoulBands, though he should not. Therefore, he needed The Holder of Conscious. It was a logical explanation, one that he was content with. As a worker in the Mending Centre, it was not completely unfathomable that a messenger should be sent to The Holder of Conscious. Though Bilbo did not quite know what The Holder did, he knew it must be terribly important. Important enough to exist, but not to question. Citizens from every section of every community relied on his guidance because The Leaders did, and The Leaders were the ones that made Rules to be followed. 

He rode his bike down the road to The Holder’s home at his next convenience. His heart was moving wildly inside his ribcage but he did not know why. He could hear it thumping between his ears, and he thought that perhaps he was broken somewhere. He would have to have a check-up at the Mending Centre. There were no bike racks in front of The Holder’s house, which left him quite puzzled, until a voice over the intercom had said,

“Just leave it anywhere.”

And so he did. He carefully rested his bike against the ground, and went to the front door. He thought about knocking, but the pressing silence from the buzzing intercom told him that it was still on, and if The Holder was inconvenienced, than he would have already said so. It felt incredibly wrong to reach for the door handle without declaring his intentions but he did, and when he twisted it, he was shocked to find it open and pliable beneath his grip.

“Down the hallway, and then down the stairs. All the way.”

He stepped inside. The hallway was surprisingly unfurnished, though it was brightly lit by windows placed between architectural columns. The air was cold. It was unlike any other building he’d seen before, but he thought that if The Holder’s home had been built in the Community then it would have fit it regardless. At the end of the corridor there were two ways he could have gone. It seemed logical for him to turn right – if he were in his own house, or a building in the Community, it was the natural way he would have gone, but this wasn’t his home.

At the end of the left corridor was another door. It was unlocked. Behind it was a staircase; a long, spiralled one. It seemed completely impractical, and with only railings on the inner spiral, quite dangerous. Unregulated. Still, as impracticable as it was, he held the railing when he made his way down it. The steps were metal, and his feet made awkward noises on them. At unequal intervals the stairs seemed to break off into different levels of the room he descended into. Along one was a high platform that completely wrapped around the room, and along another was a simple balcony that gave those who stood on it a view of the wide floor beneath it.

When he reached the very bottom, a man stood waiting for him in the very centre of the room. “I apologise for the intrusion,” Bilbo said. 

The man hummed. It was a dismissive sound, one that Bilbo had never heard before. “Why?” The Holder asked.

“I…” Bilbo found that his lungs had abruptly dried up. “I do not understand, I apologise.”

“Why do you apologise?”

Bilbo was silent.

“Let me rephrase,” The Holder said, “Why do _people_ apologise?”

A strange feeling of relief hit him. That was a safe question, a regulated one. One he could answer. “People apologise when they are seeking forgiveness,” Bilbo said. “People apologise when they have done something wrong, or when they have done something that they must be apologetic for.”

“Must be,” The Holder repeated. “You said _must be._ Is that a lie?”

Bilbo did not lie. To lie was to break a Rule, and he never broke the Rules. He did not want to be _reassigned to Elsewhere._ Elsewhere was… Elsewhere. “I do not understand,” he said again.

The Holder took a seat in an armchair that faced the middle of the room. It looked quite comfortable. No houses in the Community had chairs such as that one. Directly behind him was a wide, circular window, though its view was not one Bilbo could see out of from this angle. The Holder was bathed in a white light, but it cast tremendous shadows upon his face. “Tell me something, Bilbo,” The Holder said. “Why do you feel the need to apologise for coming here?”

A strange feeling washed over him again, though he did not have the name for it this time. It seemed that everything about this place was _strange._

It occurred to him, then, that perhaps the strangeness was on purpose. Things that were on purpose simply couldn’t be lies, could they? No one would purposefully break the Rules, and he couldn’t believe that The Holder would, either. It was the same strange line of thinking that made him believe that The Holder knowing his name, despite them never having met before, was not strange at all. However, if he had to be _strange,_ then so be it.

“I do not apologise,” he said. The words tasted… bad. Not good. He didn’t know the word for it, but they made his stomach churn. Oddly enough, it felt strangely like he had _control_ for the first time. He did not know if he liked it or not.

The Holder leaned forwards in his chair. He looked… curious. He had his neatly folded hands beneath his chin, and he watched Bilbo with eyes that were not regulated. He seemed content by Bilbo’s answer, and did not ask him to correct himself. “Then, if that is so, I have something for you,” he said.

“Something…?”

“Something you desire.”

Again, that strange fastness returned to Bilbo’s heart. He lifted a hand to press against his chest, and tried not to let his expression convey his concern. He did not want to apologise – or not apologise – again. “What is it, if I may ask?”

“You may,” The Holder said. He stood, and the light from the window completely washed over him. He was an older man, but he did not seem bothered by the years his body had weathered. His appearance was neat, but the more Bilbo looked, the more he realised it wasn’t. “What I have for you, Bilbo, is a soulmate.”


	3. THREE

“A soulmate?”

“It is what you desire,” The Holder had said, “so I will give it to you.”

And he did, though Bilbo was not awake for it. Instead he was directed to lay down on The Holder’s bed – though it did not feel like a bed that was regularly used – and instructed to fall asleep. He thought that perhaps, out of all the things he had done that day, falling asleep was the most difficult. He was not used to sleeping at that time. It was unregulated. Unusual. _Strange._ But he did fall asleep, eventually, and when he woke he was told to go home.

It was only on the bicycle ride back that he was struck by the thought of SoulBands. It seemed odd that he would forget about them. He felt no different, and the things he saw looked no different. Briefly, he stopped before he reached the Community to glance at his wrists. They were smooth and unmarred. They were normal. Perfect.

Until he felt his left one. There, pressed just under his skin, was a small _something._ A SoulBand. It must have been. He did not know what it looked like or how it functioned, but somehow it was there. It was so shocking that, after a moment, he completely forget about it. He did not, however, forget about soulmates. Before he reached the Community, he wanted to think about them, about how one could find them. Would he see something different? Hear something different? Would he feel a spark run beneath his skin, or feel a tingling in his fingers if they brushed hands? The Holder had not said anything, though Bilbo had not thought to ask.

It was… good to think about soulmates. Nice. He did not know another word to describe the feelings he had. Would his soulmate be able to teach him the words? Would they know them, if they existed at all? He had too many questions in his head, and questioning things felt bad. It made him… uncomfortable. 

He pushed all thoughts out of his mind, and instead returned to his normal life. He finished his errand for the Mending Centre, waited until it was time to leave, and then went home. Number seventy-four looked as it always did, and even though the familiarity of it had long since worn off, it still offered him some sort of homeliness that he appreciated. Returning to his perfect routine, just like all of the people who lived in the Community, was easy. Following the Rules was easy. He was at a stage in his life where he should be enjoying his seclusion. It was important for personal growth and maturity. All those who were his age lived alone.

The Community had many Rules when it came to growing, but they were not bad rules. They were Rules that kept the Community perfect. When a child was born, they were cared for in the Nurturing Centre. Then, when they turned one, they were assigned to families, to a married couple. They were called Ones, even if they were no longer one-year old. Bilbo’s parents had been Belladonna and Bungo from number twenty-three, though they no longer lived there. They had taken care of him.

Now, they had gone to Elsewhere. To the good Elsewhere. 

When the child turned three, they started school. The Threes were taught the Rules, taught to follow them. At nine, they graduated to facilities where their aptitude for careers were then tested for seven years. The Nines were not given freedom, and were always supervised. Breaking a Rule as a Nine was not tolerated. Nines were gifted bicycles. At sixteen, they were assigned to their pre-careers. Sixteens were always eager to work – Bilbo had been, too. Sixteens were gifted freedom, were gifted a home. It was _responsibility._ Bilbo had gotten number seventy-four. At twenty, they graduated into adulthood, where they were given their career. Bilbo would become an Adult at the next Ascension Ceremony.

A year after that, he would be assigned a wife. Then, a year after that, a One.

That meant he did not have long to find his soulmate. Not long to figure out the next step, either. He wondered if it was worth it, but the aching hole in his chest reminded him that it was. He hadn’t broken any Rules yet. He’d done as The Holder had told him, and The Holder surely wouldn’t lead a fellow member of the Community astray, even if he was strange. He did not need to be _reassigned to Elsewhere._

The next day, after Bilbo had gotten his SoulBand, he was promoted at work. It was only a small promotion, from a helper to a practitioner, but it was certainly an improvement. As a helper, he ran messages and mended small wounds. He aided practitioners, and the more important Menders. As a practitioner, he did not need to be supervised by someone in their career, and he was allowed to take appointments by himself. It made him proud. He was even awarded a small gift – a houseplant, perfectly groomed and grown by the Gardeners. He would place it on the small table in the hallway, where those who had houseplants placed their pots.

He had an office to himself now, too. Through his open doorway he could see the cameras hanging from the ceiling as they methodically whirled, and he had a view into the large waiting room, and even across the hallway into the rooms he used to work in as a helper. It was all very perfect. Perfectly pristine. The Mending Centre was both very open and very closed at the same time, though much of the Community was the same. From his new office, Bilbo could see when his first patient politely walked in.

“I apologise for the intrusion,” the man said as he held out his hand. “My name is Thorin Oakenshield.”

“Your apology is accepted,” Bilbo answered. “My name is Bilbo Baggins. How can I help you today?”

Thorin took a seat on the patients’ chair across from Bilbo. It was a white, smooth chair, though it was not uncomfortable. Thorin did not appear uncomfortable. He had a defined face, but it was softened by the effects of the Community, and his eyes were… they were different. Bilbo had never seen eyes like that. Perhaps, after visiting The Holder, all things were starting to appear a little strange.

“I work in the construction zones,” Thorin began, “and to ascend into my career, I must pass a physical examination.”

Bilbo nodded. He knew about it. It was his job to know about it. Their Community was perfect, but there were places called _construction zones._ Though he did not know what was being built, he knew it must be important. Only people who were strong and energetic could become Constructors. Thorin looked strong. 

“I can help with that,” Bilbo said. He reached into his desk and pulled out his datapad where all his career necessities were stored. Constructors built datapads, too, though they did not design them. Constructors built everything. They built the agricultural farms and the houses and the roads. He knew that much, but he did not know what was built in the _construction zones._ To him, they were not relevant. 

After turning on the device, he entered Thorin’s name into the datapad and brought up a form for which he would fill in the required information. “Will you pass me your hand?”

Thorin did, and gently Bilbo took his wrist. He pressed Thorin’s palm against the datapad and waited for the screen to load. Constructors needed to be physically fit and healthy to work in the _construction zones,_ though Bilbo had no doubt Thorin would be. Physical examinations, for the most part, were formalities. All those who lived in the Community were perfect, or else they would not have become a One. 

They would have been reassigned to Elsewhere.

 

When Bilbo went home that evening, he allowed himself the leisure of lounging in his bath. Baths were not terribly productive, but they functioned well aesthetically, and they were good for children. It was not against a Rule to use them, so he did. 

The water came almost up to his knees. He leaned against the smooth edge and sifted bubbles through his fingers as though he were a Three again. He was comfortable. There was not anything that could disturb him, after all. He knew it must almost be Curfew time outside. 

As he absently ran his fingers over the small _something_ in his wrist, he wondered what would happen when he met his soulmate. He would be sure to keep a watchful eye out. He wondered what they looked like, though he thought that he’d… he would enjoy them either way. He did not know another word for what he would feel, but it did not matter. 

He sunk deeper into the water and tilted his head back, lowering his wrist. Unbidden, his mind wondered back to The Holder of Conscious. What a strange person he had been. The more Bilbo thought on it, the more he realised he did not know what The Holder of Conscious did. With most careers, there were pre-careers. They were easy to define, easy to explain. Regulated. But the Holder of Conscious, he was _different._ But different _how?_

In all the years Bilbo had been alive, he could not recall the memory of someone ascending to become a Holder. There was only one – the strange man who lived in his strange house. He did not know what The Holder did, other than advise The Leaders. Surely that must be important, must be a perfect role.

But why did it feel imperfect?

It unsettled him deeply. He rubbed his fingers over his wrist a little firmer, and for the first time he wished that the hole in his chest was not there. He was frightened of imperfection, he realised. The Holder was imperfect in his perfections. There was something more to him, there had to be. It was impossible that something in the Community could be unnecessary. Everything was perfect. Everything was regulated.

He believed that.


	4. FOUR

That night, something _strange_ happened. When Bilbo woke, he saw something _different._ Like the lingering scent of a gentle breeze, before his eyes he saw something that should not have been there. It was only an impression, an afterthought, and he did not know what it was. He tried very hard to recall what it had been, but the memory was not forthcoming. His conscious would not hold it.

So he forgot about it. In The After, that was the best way to smooth over a ruffled situation. Apologise, accept an apology. It was an easy give and take, one that Bilbo was endlessly familiar with. _I apologise. I accept your apology._ Every apology needed an answer, except an apology to The Holder of Conscious. Bilbo did not want to think about him either.

After eating a moderate breakfast – the same breakfast that everyone in the Community would eat – he put on his assigned clothes and took his bicycle to work. As always, the white face of the Mending Centre loomed over him as he clicked his bike into the bike stand. All the centres in the Community looked the same from the outside, barring of course the big letters that spoke the purpose of the structure. Here, it was _Mending Centre._ One door down, it was _Nurturing Centre._ All the buildings were lined up in neat, perfect rows. For a moment, he wondered what Elsewhere looked like on the outside. It seemed the type of place to be different, but nothing was different. Differences were imperfect.

His first patient of that day was a young boy, a Nine. His knee was scraped. He fell off his bicycle. Bilbo remembered when he was a Nine and he did much the same. Although Adults were equipped with mending equipment, all injuries had to be catalogued at the Mending Centre. It was easiest to let those who worked at the Mending Centre fix the problem while they were there. Bilbo patched up the Nine’s knee with an easy, friendly smile and a small, insignificant bandage. 

His second patient had an equally small wound. Bilbo’s job was important, was necessary, but it was not dangerous. There was no danger in the Community. The Rules made it so that danger was non-existent. Unbidden, his mind turned back to the _construction zones._ New workers came in regularly to get their physical examinations started, and several of which were now under Bilbo’s care. They would work in _construction zones._ They must be friendlier with danger than Bilbo was.

And so his life continued. He enjoyed his work as a practitioner, and was sure to keep his patients healthy. He was allowed to observe the Menders when they worked, too. They healed bones and cured fevers and even worked with infants. Not many people could work with the infants. Those whose career was as a Nurturer took care of the infants, and the Menders ensured their health. Sometimes, with the infants who were almost Ones, those who were testing out their affinity for careers were allowed to assist. Bilbo had a handful of times. It was always nice to see the youngest of their Community.

That night, again, the same strange thing happened. He woke to find wisps of images and voices from faraway coating his senses, and after a few laboured gasps they completely disappeared. It left him feeling damp and inherently wrong, as though he was seeing something he shouldn’t. He was sure there must be a name for what he was experiencing in his sleep, but he did not know it. Regardless, it happened every single night for the next week. The images became clearer and clearer with each night that passed, and he was very concerned that some part of him was broken.

Broken enough for him to have to go Elsewhere.

At the end of the next day, something _strange_ happened again. He had deduced that the strange impression behind his eyes would only ever come if he were sleeping (as it had never happened before) but this felt… different. He placed a hand against his desk to keep himself steady as a wave of dizziness overcame him. His wrist pulsed, like there was a second heart beating in it, and a rise of nausea swelled in his stomach.

 _I apologise,_ a faraway voice said. There was a long pause, long enough for someone to forgive an apology, then, _Yes, I believe it is time for work to stop. I shall see you tomorrow._

Bilbo let out a pained whine as he clutched both hands to his head. Without the support of the desk he fell to his knees, but he could hardly feel the pain that shot up his legs. “What’s happening?” He whimpered, fingers twitching.

There was suddenly a rift in his head, a cold shaft of movement that made him gasp. Something in it jerked as if responding to his words. Then, the voice again. _Who said that?_

“Stop, stop,” Bilbo whined, curling up over his knees more as if that could drive away the pain in his head. His heart was racing again, and he knew that something was definitely wrong, something was definitely bad.

He needed to see The Holder of Conscious. 

 

He went before Curfew. No one could be out after Curfew; it broke the Rules. He had the sleeves of his shirt pulled down as far over his wrists as they would go, and the moment he hit the odd road to The Holder’s house he pedalled faster than what was expected of someone who was almost an Adult. When The Holder’s house finally appeared, solitary and alone, a strange feeling of turmoil built in his stomach.

He wanted to turn around.

He didn’t.

Instead he left his bicycle on the ground, uncaring of how out of place it would appear, and went straight for the door. This time, The Holder did not greet him. Bilbo did not knock, but the door was not locked so he knew there was no need to. The Holder would likely be able to see him over the communications system.

As it was before, the hallway was cold. He walked down it, took the door on the left, and descended down into the very bottom of the house, into the room with the big window. He did not look out of it. “Holder!” He called as he stood at the very end of the steps, hands clutching the railing. “Holder, are you here?”

“Bilbo, my dear,” The Holder appeared from one of the side rooms, through which Bilbo could see endless shelves of books, “to what do I owe this visit?”

“What have you done to me?” Bilbo asked, despaired. “I- I keep _seeing_ things, things that I should not see, and there is a voice in my head that speaks to me-”

The Holder stepped forwards and took him by the shoulders. “What do you mean _see?”_ He asked. “Tell me clearly, Bilbo. What do you see?”

“I… Impressions, they are faint impressions of things, things I cannot explain-”

“That’s…” The Holder began, before he took a sudden step back. Bilbo felt rocked by the motion of it, and he couldn’t help but fall to his knees. “That is very strange indeed, my boy.”

“Why?” Bilbo whimpered. “Get it out of my head…”

“They are not to be feared,” The Holder said. He crouched, and took Bilbo by the shoulders again. “You’re only dreaming.”

“D-dreaming?”

“Yes, dreaming,” The Holder said. “A series of thoughts, of images and sensations and feelings that happen in your sleep. In your mind.”

“That can’t be,” Bilbo said, shaking his head. Dreams could not be. They were not controllable, weren’t maintainable. They were imperfect.

“There is so much more to this world than you know,” The Holder whispered. He lifted Bilbo back to his feet, and stepped away again. “But do not fear anything you see, you hear me? There is nothing to fear.”

Bilbo could only nod. He felt disconnected from his body, and out of control. He felt like he had broken a Rule even though he hadn’t, and the cold clamminess surging in his throat was not helping at all. “Why is it happening?” He asked. “Because of the SoulBand?”

“Perhaps,” The Holder said, “perhaps something more. Don’t be afraid of the voice in your head, Bilbo. You’ll find it is not your voice.”

“Not mine…?”

“Now go, before they notice you’ve come here.”

“Before who notices?”

“Just go, Bilbo,” The Holder ordered. “Don’t come back here for a while unless it is truly urgent.”

Bilbo did not know what constituted true urgency, but he did not question The Holder. Instead he gathered himself, holding himself around the waist as though it would stop the regularity from falling out of him, and he left. He did not want to return.


	5. FIVE

The Holder of Conscious had told him not to be frightened, but it must have been fear that rattled his bones and made his fingers feel cold. He was afraid to hear the voice in his head, to see what The Holder called dreams. He did not want to see them. And to know that there was more, that there was more than voices and dreams and fear… 

He tried to put it out of his mind, but just like the impressions behind his eyes, it lingered. 

That night, again, the impressions came. He felt vividly awake, though he knew he could not be. He had no control over his body, and no control over what he saw. He was frightened, and he felt submerged, as though everything was faraway and quiet. It was strange, the things he saw. He could not explain them. He saw people who did not look perfect, who did not act perfectly, living in imperfect places where everything looked different. He could not explain any of it. He could not.

He woke, and he tried not to be afraid.

More than the dreams, however, was his concern for the voice. The Holder had not explained it, but Bilbo thought he might know what it was. It had only after he’d obtained a SoulBand that the voice had appeared, so it must have something to do with that. Was it his soulmate? His heart raced even just thinking about it, but he did not know why. It was not exactly _fear,_ but it almost felt the same.

Bilbo was at the Mending Centre when he next felt the pain in his head. It started small, like a humming noise beating against the back of his skull. A swell of fear built up in his chest, and he was rather relieved that there was no one in his office to see him flinch. The Holder’s words, _don’t be afraid,_ ran through his mind like running water. He let out a deep breath, and pressed his hand to his heart, before letting the fear building up in his lungs wash away. He did not have to be afraid.

The space in the back of his mind unfurled slower this time, as if it was unhindered by his lack of fear. When it settled he could feel the cold space in his mind again, but it wasn’t as painful as it had been before. He listened very carefully, and stared hard at the surface of his desk as noise began to fill the emptiness. He held his breath, and wondered exactly how this something would work. Then, before he had to wonder for too long, the voice spoke again.

_H-hello?_

Bilbo startled, and glanced around his office. It sounded so real, as though he could reach out and find that there was a person suddenly standing at his fingertips. “Hello?” He tentatively asked, after casting a fugitive glance at the cameras spinning in the hallway.

The faint taste of shock touched his tongue. It tasted… bitter. Not unpleasant. _You are real,_ the voice breathed. _You are in my head._

“You are in mine,” Bilbo answered. His voice sounded quiet and relieved. He relaxed back into his chair, and after a brief moment of thought, he turned his back to the hallway and the cameras. He pressed his hands between his knees, and tried to sort out the feelings in his chest. There was no name for them in his memory. 

_I suppose that is true,_ the voice said. They sounded… amused. It was a nice voice, Bilbo thought. It sounded oddly familiar, though he supposed that was normal. _Tell me, what is your name?_

“My name?” He asked. “My name is Bilbo.”

 _Bilbo!_ Came a quiet exclamation, a breathless exclamation. _I know you!_

“D-do you?”

_Yes. I apologise, I have not yet introduced myself._

“Your apology is accepted.”

_I visited the Mending Centre some days ago. My name is Thorin._

Surprise fluttered through Bilbo. _I remember,_ he said. His heart had started to race again. He remembered Thorin, the man who would begin work in the construction zones, who needed a physical assessment. His mind raced as he replayed their meeting over. He had taken Thorin’s hand by the wrist to press it against the datapad, but he had not checked for a SoulBand beneath Thorin’s skin. To think that such an important meeting had been nothing but normal made him feel strange. 

_You feel shocked._

“I… Yes I do, I apologise,” Bilbo said. 

_Your apology is accepted._

“You can sense what I am feeling?”

_To some extent._

Bilbo slouched in his chair. It was not proper posture, but he did not care, for the moment. There was something about this he undeniably enjoyed. The words to describe it were not words he knew, but it felt good. Absently, he rubbed his fingers over the little _something_ in his wrist. He did not know what it was or how it worked, but it had done the job. 

_Do you experience pain from this?_ Thorin asked him.

Bilbo frowned for a moment. He did, but was it wise to trouble Thorin with something like that? He was a practitioner in the Mending Centre, after all. He knew how to fix people, how to mend them. He was sure, now, that he could mend himself too. 

Lying, however, was against the Rules.

“A little,” he said. “There is pain just behind my temples.”

An echo of a frown filled the space in the back of his mind, and Bilbo closed his eyes. This must be what Thorin meant when he said he could feel what Bilbo was experiencing. It was very odd indeed, but not entirely unpleasant. He did not want to forget it, even when Thorin’s voice faded from his mind. 

Quietly, Bilbo asked, “Do you have dreams?”

_Dreams-?_

“I apologise for the intrusion,” a patient said from behind him.

Bilbo jumped at the sudden voice and spun around, eyes wide. “I accept your apology,” he said before he realised exactly what had happened. “How can I help you?”

The woman standing in the doorway gave him a strange look. “Who were you speaking to?” She asked.

Bilbo forced a pleasant smile. The pain in his head was flaring up, but Thorin’s presence had completely disappeared. “Just musing to myself,” he answered. “I apologise if I startled you.”

She seemed satisfied, for the moment, by his answer, and she shook her head. “I accept your apology. May I come in?”

“Please do. How can I help you today?”

 

That night, in his bath, Bilbo thought about the part of his mind that Thorin had come to occupy. Unbidden, it opened up again, and once more the same cold shock of pain rocked through his body. He clutched one edge of the white bathtub with a wet hand as he squeezed his eyes shut tightly. It would continue to hurt until he allowed it to open, he knew that, but it was difficult. When it did, however, the pain edged away until nothing but an impression of it was left.

“Thorin?”

_I’m here._

“We must be careful.”

_I know._

“I’m sorry,” Bilbo said. He waited for several suspended moments, and did not dare to breathe. When one apologised, it was because they had done something they must seek forgiveness for. Apologies were simple, were easy, were familiar. Were ingrained in his bones, into his very being, into all of them. _I apologise. I accept your apology._

Then Thorin said, _Don’t be._


	6. EIGHT

When it came to soulmates, the right word for the feeling Bilbo felt was _curious._ The more he talked to Thorin, the more he felt himself expanding, like his body was becoming capable of experiencing more and more things. Things he’d never known existed. Although he did not have a name for them, they were not entirely bad. He enjoyed Thorin’s company in his head, and the more often they spoke the less his head hurt. It was like building a muscle.

They spoke often. As often as they could. Thorin could only hear him if he spoke out loud so it was difficult to talk to him without anyone, the cameras included, noticing. The Holder of Conscious might be strange, but Bilbo did not want to be. Mostly, he spoke to Thorin when he was in the bath. While there were cameras in his home, they were only in the kitchen and in the living room. Sixteens, after all, were afforded some privacy in their homes. Bilbo would turn twenty next year and thus become an Adult at the following Accession Ceremony, but for now he still had his house and his private bathroom.

“No, dreams are not bad, I don’t think,” Bilbo said as he absently sifted his fingers through the lukewarm water in his bathtub. “The Holder did not say they are to be feared. Quite the opposite, actually…”

Thorin hummed. _I wish I could see these dreams of yours,_ he said. He sounded honest.

“Why?” Bilbo asked quietly. “Don’t you think it’s… strange?”

 _Yes,_ Thorin said, _but aren’t soulmates strange too?_

“I-I suppose,” Bilbo answered. He stretched out his legs and watched his knees disappear beneath the surface of the water. To Bilbo, soulmates were fast becoming explainable. Thorin was real, was tangible. He felt safe, and safe things were regulated things. Dreams were not safe. Bilbo saw bad things in his dreams, saw things that were unreasonable. He did not like experiencing them, and hoped that they would stop soon. The Holder said not to fear them, but he couldn’t help but be frightened.

_Did I upset you? I apologise._

Bilbo shook his head, though he knew Thorin could not see it. He had to choke back his urge to answer Thorin’s apology. “I’m alright,” he said instead, “just… I do not know the word for the emotion I feel. I am concerned.”

 _I understand,_ Thorin said. _There are many things I do not know the name of now. They are… curious. Intriguing. I do not know if I enjoy them yet._

A feeling of companionable relief swept through Bilbo. The jumbled thoughts in his head were in Thorin’s too, it seemed. He did not feel so alone anymore. “I am the same,” he told Thorin, “but the dreams make things feel much more complicated than they are. Why am I the only one who has them?”

_Perhaps others with our connection experience dreams._

“Perhaps,” Bilbo said airily. However plausible it seemed, Bilbo did not think it was likely. He recalled how The Holder had reacted when Bilbo mentioned the impressions he got, how The Holder had seemed so avid in his explanations. It made Bilbo think that no other person had had the dreams, or at least had told The Holder about them. In the first place, how did The Holder know about dreams? Did it have to do with his career?

That night, Bilbo had dreams again. He expected it. When the images began to flicker behind his eyes, he tried not to reject them. In dreams, he had no control.

This time, the dreams were different. Perhaps it was because he no longer tried to wake up from them. He’d only ever dreamed of people and places before that night, but that night he dreamed of _experiences._ They flashed behind his eyes over and over until one scene blurred into the next so much so that his head started to ache. 

He dreamed of screams. 

Images of areas filled with nothing but sand and running figures filled his mind. There were images of children who were so thin their bones showed, and of these strange creatures wearing metal collars as they were forced to fight. There were screams and screams and screams, but more than that was the crying. Seas of black objects to hold away the water that the sky shed and large, human-sized boxes being buried in the ground and people sitting on the street, covered in filth and downtrodden. There were people holding what could only be weapons and there were people hooked up to machines that kept their hearts beating and there were people who cowered, covered in bruises, as they were beaten.

They were memories, but they were not his own.

The sounds started to overlap in his head. There were loud, ricocheting bangs and the screams, and there were cries from people whose throats were going tight and whose voices were going hoarse. The skies clapped with loud rumbles and explosions left expanding plumes of smoke rising in the air. Buildings fell, and hearts were broken, and people _cried._

When he woke with a violent gasp, he was crying too. His eyes burned and his face was hot and he didn’t even care that he was breaking Curfew, he went to see The Holder. The air outside was moderately cold and the wind from riding his bicycle only made it worse. He could hear an announcement being made over the speakers – _“Dear members of our community, we would like to remind you that Curfew is in place and no one is to leave their homes. Thank you.”_ – but he didn’t care. He couldn’t get the noise out of his head.

Suddenly, Thorin’s voice slipped into the fray. _Bilbo – Bilbo, what is wrong? Can you hear me? You’re making my heart hurt._

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Bilbo gasped. He swiped at his wet cheeks and let out a small noise as his bicycle wobbled. He was on the road to The Holder’s house now, and when he shot a glance back at the Community, the sight of the lamps lighting up the paths only made his stomach coil uncomfortably. The night sky felt like it was pressing down on his shoulders.

 _What’s wrong?_ Thorin asked. _Please, tell me, Bilbo. Where are you?_

“I have to see The Holder,” he said. “I have to see The Holder.”

_Why? Bilbo, what happened? I feel a tightness in my chest. It hurts._

“I had a dream,” Bilbo said, “a very bad dream. I cannot- it hurts Thorin, I don’t understand-”

_Where are you?_

“I’m going to see The Holder,” Bilbo repeated. “He will fix me.”

_I’m coming._

“You can’t!” Bilbo said as he skidded to a halt. “The Curfew, the Rules – you cannot break them, Thorin.”

 _I’m coming,_ Thorin insisted.

Bilbo’s heart had started racing again. He dropped both his feet to the ground and scrubbed at his face, hunching over the handlebars of his bicycle. “They’ll send you to Elsewhere for breaking the Rules,” he whimpered. Thorin did not answer, but Bilbo knew he was already moving. After sucking in a deep breath, he hurried on his way to The Holder’s house. When it finally appeared, a dark, lonely shape pressed into the sky, he felt sick. 

The Holder would know what was happening to him. He had to.


	7. TWELVE

“Holder! It’s Bilbo, Bilbo Baggins! Holder, you must let me in. Please!” Bilbo shouted as he banged against the front door to The Holder’s house. It was dark inside, and quiet, though it did not remain so for long. The door unlocked with a surprisingly loud click, and as fast as Bilbo could he slipped inside. He glanced out of the windows, back towards the Community, as he made his way down the hallway, but nothing was coming.

For now.

The room at the very bottom of the house was surprisingly cold at night. The Holder was not there when Bilbo descended into it. Without The Holder’s figure present the room was bigger, and unbidden Bilbo went to the window. Aided by the light of the moon, Bilbo had a clear view out beyond the Community. He had never seen it, but looking at it now – an endless expanse of clouds and agricultural field – he found that it wasn’t anything he had expected. He hadn’t really expected anything, actually, but it was… mediocre, at best. 

Every part of The Holder’s house felt strange, but as soon as one left it, then regularity coated the world, like in invisible glaze. For the first time, it felt oddly unsettling.

The Holder appeared on the steps only a short moment later. “What is the meaning of this unexpected visit?” He asked. He was dressed as primly and respectfully as ever, as though no sleep had touched him that night, but Bilbo knew that could not be true.

“You have to take it out,” Bilbo said, turning his back to the large, circular window. The glow of the moon cast his shadow long and thick before him.

“Take what out?”

“The _dreams,”_ Bilbo said. “They are- they are _painful.”_

A frown came to The Holder’s face. He walked closer, but did not completely approach Bilbo. “What did you see?” He demanded. His eyes were frightfully intense.

“I saw bad things, very bad things,” Bilbo said. His face had twisted with some unnameable feeling, and his eyes were wet again. “People were screaming, and there were loud noises, and places I’ve never seen before. There was a lot of- a lot of _blood._ Those were bad places. I know you said not to be afraid, but I am _frightened.”_

“You saw war,” The Holder said. His voice was light and airy, as though he was deeply shocked. “You saw death, and sadness. You experienced it.”

“What is it?” Bilbo pressed, trembling. He felt like he was being unstitched from the very core. “Tell me Holder, why am I seeing these things? Why does my chest feel as though someone has squeezed it shut? I do not want to see these- these _things.”_

“I’m sorry, Bilbo,” The Holder said. “I hope you can forgive me.”

Bilbo’s mouth snapped shut. An apology from The Holder felt incredibly wrong. He could feel himself closing up, could feel the pain in his head returning from the place where Thorin usually occupied. He backed up, baulking even when The Holder stalked forwards.

“Give me your hand,” The Holder said. “You mustn’t be afraid Bilbo. I’m so sorry, but you mustn’t.”

“Why?” He whimpered, clutching at his head as he avoided The Holder’s outstretched palm. “It hurts, and I cannot breath. I do not understand. I do not want to dream anymore.”

“It’s not all bad,” The Holder said. He sounded… pleading. “I promise you, it is not all bad. I don’t know why you have seen what you have, but you _must_ forgive it. Do you hear me, Bilbo? Do not be frightened. Give me your hand.”

Bilbo jerked as The Holder took his hand. Touch among those who were not in a family unit was not polite. It was against the Rules. He had already broken so many Rules today. Still, The Holder latched onto his wrists, and Bilbo felt his fingers go cold. A harsh inhale lodged in his throat as his mind suddenly went dark.

He was dreaming again, but this time he did not dream of war and of pain. 

This time he dreamed of… sounds. Pretty sounds, sounds that made up long things to listen to, that people moved strangely too. They looked… happy. They had their hands in the air, and they spun around. They laughed louder than Bilbo had ever heard before, and were unbridled by anything other than their enjoyment. They smiled.

He saw the way a sprout first burst forth from soil, and he saw children laughing as little soap bubbles drifted through the air. He saw a whole field of trees, and saw little flying creatures flitter among the leaves that made up the sky. He saw warm sunlight bringing colour to flowers that bloomed everywhere. There were no flowerpots.

He saw soulmates, saw elderly couples sitting in front of wooden houses, saw people with paint on their face, saw coloured power thrown in the air, saw creatures of all shapes and sizes. He saw paintings, and children being born, children cradled in the arms of their exhausted, overjoyed mothers. He saw a whole expanse of water glittering, more water than he’d ever seen, and he felt a salty wind rush over his cheeks. 

He saw what it was like to live, but it wasn’t the life he had.

It wasn’t _his_ life.

When he came to, he was on his knees, and The Holder was in front of him. His wrists were trapped in The Holder’s tight grip, and he did not let up even when Bilbo’s eyes flickered open. He felt boneless. The Holder watched him intently, but Bilbo’s eyes were too fuzzy to return the look. 

Thorin was holding him. It took Bilbo a moment to realise it, but Thorin was crouched beside him, holding the back of his head to keep it from lolling. His touch was… comforting. Warm. “What have you done to him?” Thorin demanded. His voice sounded exactly as it had when it was in Bilbo’s head, and it made him dizzy. How would he ever tell which part of him Thorin was speaking to – his ears, or his mind?

“Nothing,” The Holder answered sharply, “that hasn’t already happened on its own.”

When the echo of the dream-noises finally faded, Bilbo regained his ability to talk. “What was that?” He gasped. “How can I dream when I am not asleep?”

“They’re memories,” The Holder said, “but they are not memories that are like the ones we are capable of having.”

“I don’t understand…”

“They’re conscious memories, memories that can be shared between people,” The Holder said. “They’re transferable, but not to everyone. They’re very important, you understand? Very precious.”

Bilbo shook his head. “I- memories of _when?_ It’s too unexplainable, too imperfect. Those things do not exist, Holder.”

“But they _did!”_ The Holder exclaimed with a sudden burst. He stood and swept out his arms, and looked everywhere but at them, before abruptly swooping back down to take Bilbo by the shoulders. “They _did_ exist, Bilbo,” he whispered fervently. “They’re memories of _Before.”_


	8. SEVENTEEN

_“Before?”_ Bilbo parroted listlessly. A deep, cold dread had settled in the pit of his stomach, and not even the warmness of the memories freshly held in his head could chase it away. “Before _what?”_

“Before all of this,” The Holder whispered feverishly as his grip tightened on Bilbo’s shoulders, “before The After, before all the Communities and the Rules and the uniformity. Before it all.”

Bilbo flinched, and swallowed a pained sound when Thorin pulled him from The Holder’s grip. “Now that is enough,” Thorin said sharply. His grip, unlike The Holder’s, was effortlessly gentle. “You are frightening him.”

It was true, but Bilbo felt as though he had been frightened for far longer than just that night. He appreciated Thorin’s actions. Beyond all else, even the memories fading in Bilbo’s mind, Thorin was warm. He was constant, and he was regulated. He was predictable, and that was what Bilbo liked. He did not want that to change.

The Holder’s intense eyes did not leave Bilbo. “I did not expect this to happen so soon,” he murmured to himself. “Bilbo, you’re going to be involved in some very frightening things very soon. I advise,” he said, as he cast a quick glance to Thorin, “that you keep to yourself as much as possible, and that you follow the Rules very carefully. You must not give yourself away.”

Bilbo bristled. This behaviour from The Holder was very strange, and he did not like it. Some part of him, a deep instinctual part he had not known existed before then, told him that something was very wrong indeed. He did not hesitate to take Thorin’s hand when it was offered, and stood on shaky legs. “How do I stop it?” He asked one last time. “I did not choose for this to happen, for these dreams to haunt me. I do not want them.”

“I’m afraid you don’t have a choice.”

 

“What did you see?” Thorin asked as they slowly made their way back to the Community and its glowing lights. His eyes had not left Bilbo, not yet. He looked concerned.

“I do not want to tell you,” Bilbo admitted quietly, “because I do not want to frighten you, too. I did not dream of anything good.”

Thorin was silent for a moment. Then, “Tell me about the things that you saw that were good. I want to know.”

It took Bilbo a moment to recall the things that had been good. It seemed that just like the other dreams, and memories from many years ago, that the ones he was given would too fade into the very far reaches of his mind. “I saw… I do not have a name for it, but I saw things that were happy. There were entire fields of forests, as far as the eye could see, and even bigger expanses of salty water…”

“Salty water?”

Bilbo nodded. “It sounds impossible, does it not?” He offered Thorin a tired, weak smile. Many things felt impossible now, and they drained him of all his energy. To admit such things to Thorin felt incredibly… remorseful.

“Impossible, perhaps, but not unimaginable,” Thorin answered. “I believe you, Bilbo. Tell me more.”

Bilbo breathed in deeply. “There were people moving to these- these noises. Long noises, like I’ve never heard before. They were good. I have never seen people move like that, but they were enjoying themselves, I think. There were children, too – children being born, staying with their birth mothers. They were so exhausted, but they cradled the infants like none of the pain they had been through meant anything anymore. If that truly was The Before, then I don’t know how The After ever came to be.”

Thorin hummed. He was watching the Community and its distant lights now, though there was no noticeable feeling on his face. “I wish I knew what these dreams were like, even the bad ones.”

“Why?” Bilbo asked with a shiver, taken aback. “They are awful. If that was how The Before was, then I hope it never returns.”

“Yes, but I feel as though there is now an impassable rift between us,” Thorin said. He stopped, and looked at Bilbo as though seeing him for the first time, and did not say another word.

 _A rift?_ Between them stood nothing more than their bicycles, but the more Bilbo looked at the space, the further it seemed to drift open. Why had he chosen to walk with his bicycle between himself and Thorin? Why had Thorin decided the same thing? Even when Bilbo involuntarily reached for the place Thorin’s voice had come to occupy, he found it vacant. It made sense; with Thorin standing before him, what need did he have for that space in his head where Thorin could touch? But it didn’t feel the same. 

It felt unnecessary, and it wasn’t.

Bilbo turned his stricken eyes away from Thorin, and pushed his bicycle on. “I wonder,” he said suddenly, “why The Holder has no soulmate.”

 

Work proved to be difficult when Bilbo’s mind was preoccupied with dreams. He apologised many times a day, but the apologies that left his lips no longer felt honest. It was as though he lied with every word he spoke. He felt broken, but there was no one who could possibly know how to fix him. The Holder himself had said it – he had no choice.

The Holder did not lie, not about dreams. Not to Bilbo.

Thorin’s voice returned to his head. Amongst the turmoil sickening his stomach, it was a small comfort. Sometimes, now, Bilbo did not answer. There was a part of him that knew Thorin only spoke for his benefit, and he did not know how to show his gratefulness.

For a moment, he entertained the thought of getting Thorin a houseplant as thanks.

In the end, he threw his own one outside, and the table in his front entryway once again was empty. He could not bare to look at it. If anyone asked about his now outdoor plant, he’d say _it needed some sunlight, that is all_ because lying had suddenly become so painfully easy that he did not realise the words had left his mouth until the sentence was finished. It was believable, and regulated. It was a lie, but it was perfect. It hurt.

Dreams were much the same. They came every night, and every time he closed his eyes. They were not all bad, but it is the bad ones he remembered. The bad ones were the ones he woke up to smothering his own screams, sweat-soaked and crying. Some were so bad that he woke Thorin, too, and it was only Thorin’s sleep-slurred murmurings that willed him back to sleep.

It was at work, one day, that Thorin’s voice once again reached him. _Bilbo, the Leaders are searching for you. They are going to the Mending Centre._

Bilbo glanced up from the paperwork he’d been staring at. Thorin sounded… urgent. “Why?” Bilbo asked. 

_I do not know,_ Thorin said, _but do not block me out. I want to listen._

“Alright,” Bilbo said. He glanced, once, out of his office window and marvelled at the uniformity of the Community. Rows and rows of copy-and-paste buildings, and people who dressed the same, spoke the same, acted the same. _Bilbo_ was the same. Even with the little _something_ humming beneath the skin on his wrist, he knew he was inherently the same. He grew up the same, learned the same things. His parents went Elsewhere as the parents of others like him had.

But he did not sleep like others did.

“I apologise for the interruption,” a calm voice said from the doorway, “but may I borrow your time?”

“Your apology is accepted,” Bilbo said. He sounded no different than usual. “How may I help you?”

The woman before him was the picture of perfection. She was average in height, and had hair a colour that he saw a dozen times a day. He knew her name, but today it escaped him. She looked just like Leader, today, and nothing more. 

Leader did not sit, as he expected, and instead she stared down at him. Self-consciously, he dropped his wrist from where he had been holding it. Leader’s eyes smoothly followed the motion, but she did not make a remark about it. “There is a matter I would like to discuss with you,” she said, “with the other Leaders. Will you come with me?”

It was just like The Holder said.

He did not have a choice.


	9. TWENTY-SIX

The Leader took Bilbo to the main event hall, to the place where all ceremonies were undertaken. Bilbo went to the hall every year to welcome the new Ones, Threes, Nines, Sixteens and Adults to their appointed roles in the Community. The ceremonies where the elderly were farewelled to Elsewhere and Ascension Ceremonies were also held in the main event hall.

It was oddly eerie without the Community members filling each and every seat. Rows of average chairs intersected by evenly spaced walkways spread out before him. The Leader walked down to the podium. It was a large, round platform placed in the centre of the hall where it was thus visible from all angles. Leader walked up its short stairs to reach the flat surface of the podium, and turned her head over one shoulder to give Bilbo a considering glance. “Take a seat,” she said.

And so he did. He carefully folded himself down into one of the seats in the front row and politely held his hands in his lap. He would never dare disobey a Leader. As he watched, the Leader turned back to face the widest part of the podium. A familiar noise flickered through the air, and then holograms of the other Leaders appeared. Aside from the woman Bilbo was with, there were four – two more women, and two men. He had seen their faces at each ceremony, but that was when he was a nameless person in a faceless crowd. 

“We apologise for this means of communication,” the woman with the lightest hair said, “but we cannot be there in person.”

“Your apology is accepted,” Leader and Bilbo murmured in unison. It was so regimented that Bilbo felt a chill go down his spine. When it was him and the Leaders like this, without anyone else, he felt… vulnerable. It was not a good feeling. 

“It’s come to our attention that you have visited The Holder of Conscious recently,” a man said. His eyes were sharp. “I would like to know why.” 

“The Holder of Conscious has already been to see us this evening,” the other woman quickly clarified. She had a gentle voice, one that was very unlike the regulated tones of her companions. “He said it was concerning his health check-up.”

Bilbo nodded, and resisted the urge to reach for his left wrist. The Leaders were clearly waiting for his explanation, but any word that left his mouth would have been a lie, and he did not want to lie anymore. Telling the truth, however, was not an option. He did not want to discredit The Holder, either, or else they would both be liars.

 _Don’t panic,_ Thorin whispered to him. _It shows on your face. Tell them that The Holder was mistakenly transferred into your care._

“The Holder of Conscious was mistakenly transferred into my care,” Bilbo parroted.

 _Good,_ Thorin praised. _Tell them the truth about your first visit. The others were out of concern, because he seemed unwell, and he is an important figure._

“I was sent on an errand by the Mending Centre to retrieve his guidance,” Bilbo said. “He seemed… unwell. Out of concern, I went to see him. He had not made an appointment at the Mending Centre in quite some time.”

“I see,” Sharp Eyes answered. He was watching Bilbo critically, as though he could see right through him. “You broke Curfew.”

“I apologise,” Bilbo said. He sounded truthful, even to his own ears. He had not realised lying could be such a powerful tool. “He is an… important person to the Community. I thought it was for the best.”

“That is true,” Soft Voice said. “I believe you made the right choice, Bilbo. The Holder of Conscious came to ask that your transgressions be excused. Did you know of this?”

Bilbo shook his head. His heart was racing in his chest again. He was nervous. “I did not know,” he admitted. “I apologise for the trouble I have caused.”

“Your apology is accepted,” Soft Voice answered. “You seem well suited to your role in the Mending Centre. Your concern for your patients is inspiring.”

She said _inspiring_ the same way one might say _troublesome,_ and it did not soothe Bilbo’s anxiousness. Even with such a soft voice, this Leader was just as intimidating as the others. Even though Bilbo had never been around them like this, he knew deep down that their power to control must have always frightened him.

And just like all those who lived in the Community, he had mistaken it for perfection.

“Regardless,” Sharp Eyes said, “The Holder’s fascination with you is worrisome. Your behaviour recently is much the same. Is there something you wish to divulge to us?”

“You’re not in trouble, Bilbo,” Leader added.

There was much he wished to divulge. SoulBands, soulmates, dreams – all of it. They were brands of imperfection that Bilbo had not been raised to withstand, but he was sure the Leaders could fix it. The words simmered in his throat, and he opened his mouth to speak them, before stopping. 

There was a warm presence in his mind that he did not wish to give up.

“There isn’t anything in particular,” Bilbo said. “I am concerned about The Holder, that is all. He is… unlike my other patients. I struggle to understand him.”

“Now that is something that is understandable,” Light Hair agreed. 

_They believe you,_ Thorin said. _They cannot tell that you are lying._

Bilbo wanted to tell Thorin not to remind him of that fact, and it was only by grinding his teeth together was he able to swallow the words. For one selfish moment he hoped that Thorin could sense his irritation, but that feeling drifted away within seconds, unbound by anything substantial. “If I may ask, what is The Holder’s role in the Community? I wish to understand him more.”

 _Be careful, Bilbo,_ Thorin whispered urgently.

Bilbo pushed his voice away. He wanted to know.

“You wish to _understand_ him?” Sharp Eyes repeated. Although nothing in his posture changed, the air he projected suddenly felt colder. His gaze felt hungry.

“He is my patient,” Bilbo said. His thoughts felt jumbled at the sudden attentiveness he was garnering, and he could not comprehend why his interest in The Holder was suddenly so important. Perhaps he had said something wrong, after all. 

“His role is important,” Leader said. There was a finality in her tone that told Bilbo the conversation was over. He did not contest it. Somehow, this conversation felt incredibly dangerous. As dangerous as the idea of the mysterious _construction zones._

His questions had not been answered, and Bilbo did not think he’d made his situation any better. If the Leaders were watching him, that meant he had done something wrong. The Leaders watched everyone, but they did not ask for someone, not like this.

_Bilbo, are you alright?_

Bilbo couldn’t respond to Thorin, not yet. He did not feel safe. Not even when the Leaders dismissed him and he was surrounded by the uniformity of the Community did his unease subside. Suddenly, the regularity of it no longer seemed familiar, and he could not understand why. There was not much he understood lately.

_Bilbo?_

Hearing Thorin’s voice only startled him further. He glanced around suspiciously, frightened that others would suddenly be able to hear his thoughts, and did not answer Thorin. Soulmates were another thing he did not understand. He thought he did – thought that soulmates were the missing part of him, but it wasn’t so. Now that hole in his chest had only been ripped apart further, and a spiteful part of himself told him that it was because of the SoulBand in his wrist. Thorin had been onto something when he spoke of a _rift._ It was dangerous. Had Bilbo not gotten the SoulBand, then he wouldn’t be dreaming, and none of these feelings would be following him.

If he was not careful, he was sure the rift opening up inside him would swallow him whole.


	10. THIRTY-FIVE

That evening, a package arrived on Bilbo’s doorstep. It was strange, as mail was rare in the Community, and only ever delivered during the morning. Mail was generally treated as a formality, and the only things he ever truly received where the annual invitations to the ceremonies held in the main hall. If one needed a message delivered, it was considered polite if they did so in person. Mail was impersonal.

The package, however, was clearly meant for him. He glanced both ways down the street before carefully picking the package up. It was moderately heavy, and square shaped. There was no note stuck to its perfect, plain white packaging. He turned it over in his hands but its contents revealed no secrets. With it in his hands he felt incredibly watched, and the only place that feeling would ease was in his bathroom. 

After his meeting with the Leaders, however, he knew he could not do it now.

And so he forgot about it. Doing such a thing turned out to be frightfully easy, as was slipping back into his regular routine. Like everyone else in the Community he ate his meal and finished his evening tasks and retired to bed. When Curfew hit and all the household lights were turned off, he stayed awake. Keeping his eyes open was the easy part – keeping the dreams from descending into his mind was difficult. He managed.

Only when the night had truly descended did he slip out of bed. His movements felt oddly jerky, but he walked straight, and he did not falter. He had left the package on the table in the hallway and he snatched it up as he walked past it to the bathroom. He sat on the edge of the bathtub and shakily unwrapped the package with cold fingers, carefully pulling away the paper until he revealed its contents.

It was a book. Bilbo frowned as he glanced at its front and back cover, but it was completely bare. It was clearly old and very worn, but it had its own sort of charm. As he turned it over, a piece of paper slipped out from between its pages. When Bilbo picked it up, he was surprised to find that it was addressed to him. He did not recognise the handwriting.

 _Bilbo, this is a book that all those who are chosen to be Holders receive,_ the note read. It made Bilbo’s frown deeper, but he continued reading nevertheless. _I want you to read it, and try to remember that dreams are not all bad. These are the good things._

The book was from The Holder, then. Of course it was.

Hastily scrawled onto the back of the note was another short message – _don’t let anyone find this book, Bilbo. It’s incredibly precious._

He did not think there was much that could convince him the dreams were anything but bad, but The Holder seemed sure that this book could do it. Although he was scared, he wanted to know more. The Holder himself had said there was more, and so there had to be. Tentatively, he opened the book to its first page. There was an image on it of a vast, blue expanse of water accompanied only by a small paragraph of text.

Gently, he lowered himself down to sit on the floor with his back against the wall of the bathtub. He had a lot of reading to do.

 

The next day, Bilbo woke more conflicted than ever. After reading much of the book The Holder had given him, his dreams had been for the most part quiet pleasant. He’d dreamed of that vast water body – called an _ocean_ – and of people who were happy. They listened to pretty sounds called _music_ and moved their bodies in patterns called _dancing._

Those things were not bad. They were not things he was afraid of, though his inherent dislike of imperfect things made him feel as though he should be.

The war, however, and the famine, the death, the sadness – those were things that terrified him. He did not know which was more prominent; his curiosity towards the adventures of The Before or the fear of things that had led to The After. He was tempted to ask for Thorin’s opinion, but he did not want to tell Thorin about the book, and he did not want to tell Thorin about the dreams. The bad ones, anyway.

He did eventually tell Thorin about the good ones. “The water, it is called an ocean,” Bilbo told him one evening as he sat in his bathtub. “There were many creatures that lived in it, and it was so deep that no one ever knew where it ended.”

 _Is that so?_ Thorin said. He sounded amused, though that was not a bad thing. He liked hearing Bilbo talk about the dreams, it seemed.

“Yes,” Bilbo answered, “and there were these… these machines that could float on top, no matter how large they were. People rode on them to see the ocean, and to visit others in countries that were across the water. The world was so big that it could not all be seen from any one point.”

 _That’s quite incredible,_ Thorin said. _And you dreamed of it?_

“Yes,” Bilbo said again, “I’ve dreamed of it several times now. I wonder if it truly existed.”

 _I think it might have,_ Thorin said, _it would be nice if it did._

“I think it’s frightening,” Bilbo whispered. If oceans were real, then The Before was real, and that meant all the things in his dreams had to be real, too. “But not… not a bad frightening. Intimidating.”

_I understand._

For a moment, Bilbo was quiet. He pulled the book over from where it rested on the small stool in his bathroom, and opened it to the last page he had been reading. There were accounts from many other Holders, Holders that Bilbo had not known had lived. Their names weren’t recorded down, but their handwriting was different, and the way they drew pictures from their dreams was different. He wondered which part of the book The Holder he knew now had added to, but he had not yet come across his handwriting.

“Thorin, may I ask you something?”

_Of course._

“How did you know what to say to the Leaders?” Bilbo asked. It had been bothering him for a while, though he had not known how to politely bring up the topic. He supposed that asking straightforwardly was all he could do. 

_The Holder told me._

Bilbo startled, and slipped the book shut again. He placed it back on the stool and reached forwards to drain the bath water. “How did The Holder tell you?”

_He came to visit me._

The more Thorin spoke, the worse the unease in Bilbo became. “You did not tell me,” he said, though it was not an accusation. 

Thorin was silent for a moment. _I do not know if we can trust him._

“We?”

_You and I._

Bilbo knew what Thorin meant, but that was not the answer he was searching for. He had not realised that Thorin and himself had become a single unit, though he was not entirely opposed to the idea. “How did The Holder know? About the Leaders, that is.”

_I do not know._

Bilbo frowned, and turned his gaze to the door. Outside that door, he was not safe. Tonight, he might not have safe dreams. It made sleeping seem terribly inconvenient.

 _I am sorry if I upset you, Bilbo,_ Thorin said quietly. _It was not my intention._

“I am not upset,” Bilbo said. He truly wasn’t. “I am frightened.”


	11. FOURTY-NINE

Thorin arrived for his next check-up the following week. Bilbo had had little chance to see him, and although he liked the intrinsic closeness of hearing Thorin’s voice in his head, having him around in person was just a little bit better. He wished that their careers crossed over more frequently so that he could see Thorin often.

“How have you been feeling lately, Thorin?” Bilbo asked, as he methodically went through the medical routine required for those who worked in construction. He was slowly but surely getting the hang of it, now. “All healthy?”

“All healthy,” Thorin nodded. He looked oddly amused, though perhaps Bilbo only noticed because he was very accustomed to Thorin’s voice now. “How is the evaluation going?”

“Perfectly,” Bilbo answered. He reached for Thorin’s wrist – the left one – and pressed his palm against the datapad. Beneath his fingertips he could feel Thorin’s SoulBand pressing up against his skin. It made him feel oddly… happy. He hadn’t felt it before. “I do not believe you will have any troubles with your physical examination.”

“I’m glad,” Thorin said with an easy, polite smile. 

Bilbo was able to smile back. Being around Thorin always made him feel a little safer. They had secrets in common, after all; secrets that neither were willing to share. It seemed that Thorin was always able to tell when Bilbo was worried, and his voice helped soothe Bilbo’s anxieties. He was surprisingly comforting in his subtle imperfections.

Bilbo was not concerned about Thorin. He was, however, concerned about The Holder. It seemed that after his little lies to the Leaders, The Holder had been transferred into his care. He did not know who authorised it, but it was as though he had not lied at all, and it made him uncomfortable to think about. To think that such a big lapse in the Rules could be covered so easily was certainly off putting. 

As a practitioner at the Mending Centre, it was his duty to take care of those under his charge, and so that was what he would do. The Holder never left his home, so it was Bilbo’s job to go to him. It was nerve-wracking but that was only because he did not trust The Holder, although he did not know why. The Holder was a strange person, and Bilbo feared that. It would take some time for him to become accustomed to it.

This time, he knocked on the door. He left his bicycle leaning up against the side of the house neatly, too. Even when The Holder’s voice resounded over the communications systems urging him inside, he still asked that his intrusion be forgiven. He allowed himself to fall into that routine because it was familiar. It was how he knew to act.

The Holder, predictably, was sitting in his armchair at the very bottom of the house. The chair was facing the window, and when Bilbo slowly walked down the stairs he could only see The Holder’s back. Somehow, he looked frail, though Bilbo knew it must be a trick of the light. “I’m here to perform your check-up,” he said when it became clear The Holder wouldn’t speak first.

“You needn’t,” The Holder said. He straightened his back and stood to face Bilbo. “Did you receive my package?”

Bilbo frowned, and held his datapad tightly. He nodded.

“There are no cameras in here, you can speak freely,” The Holder told him. “Being The Holder allows me some fortune, you know.”

Bilbo’s shoulders slumped. “What is the book for?” He asked.

“It’s a book of memories,” The Holder murmured, “or something of a similar nature. Holders experience dreams and many other things that we record down in the book, mostly for our own eyes. The Community does not know anything about the book.”

“That explains why you asked I not share it.”

“Did you tell anyone?”

“I didn’t,” Bilbo answered dryly. “Why have you given it to me? I am not a Holder, nor will I ever be. I will have a career in the Mending Centre.”

The Holder hummed. “Yes, I know…” He said, though his voice sounded strange. It was a tone Bilbo could not put a name to, though he did not think it meant anything good. “Have you been reading the book?”

“I have,” Bilbo said. “Why do you ask?”

“Has it helped with the nightmares?”

“Nightmares…?”

“Bad dreams.”

Bilbo frowned again. “They have a name?”

“They’re not uncommon,” The Holder said. “The object of a person’s fear often appears in their dreams, especially if the fear is strong or irrational. People dreamed, and had nightmares, in The Before. They do not now.”

Tentatively, Bilbo took a seat on the steps. “And why is that?” He asked.

“Dreams are imperfect, they are uncontrollable. I am sure you know that,” The Holder said. “The Leaders, or however they wish to be called now, ensure that every person in the Community is controllable, that they are maintained. They’re treated less like people and more like moveable pieces in a game.”

“That cannot be true,” Bilbo said. His fingers tightened around the datapad. “We are not in a game.”

“No, we are not,” The Holder agreed. “But you are controlled, and Thorin is controlled, and all the people you know are controlled. Every part of you is regulated, and all things that are controllable – even the things that are natural – are eliminated. Dreams, nightmares, emotions and even soulmates are all removed. Isn’t it frustrating?”

Bilbo shook his head. He did not understand what The Holder was saying. His thoughts felt too muddled. 

“It’s too perfect, Bilbo,” The Holder eventually said. He walked closer to take Bilbo by the wrist and haul him up. “Too regulated. Humans aren’t meant to be so _similar,_ so _regulated._ We are meant to make mistakes and feel many emotions and go on _adventures._ You’ve seen the dreams, seen the good parts. Don’t you feel as though that is, above all else, _right?”_

Bilbo swallowed heavily. He did not like to hear his complicated feelings so easy forced into words. “What is your job?” He asked. 

The Holder levelled him with a steady stare. “My job is to advise the Leaders, to ensure that their Community stays perfect, to eradicate all failures of the past. Of The Before,” he said. “All the combined consciousness of The Before is stored in my head so that I am able to fulfil my job perfectly.”

Bilbo jerked his wrist free, heart racing. “All the…” He whispered, eyes wide. He took a step back and almost stumbled on the staircase. “How can that be?”

“It just is,” The Holder whispered fervently. “Holders – we are afforded every liberty so that we stay in line. We are not monitored, our homes have no cameras. We eat food that is different, we dress different, we act different – we are ¬ _allowed_ to be different. We can lie. We are allowed to be untruthful, to ignore the rules, to twist and bend them. There is very little we can’t do, and yet there is only one thing each and every one of us have ever wanted that is completely forbidden.”

The sound of Bilbo’s heart had filled his ears, so much so that it was almost deafening. He was frightened, and he could feel the space in his head where Thorin occupied starting to open up as his fear saturated whatever bond they had. He knew Thorin could hear what he heard if the link was open, and he did not want Thorin to hear this. When he pushed against the bond, a sudden pain flared up in his mind, but he ignored it. Thorin could not hear this.

“What is it?” Bilbo whispered, his voice choked and hoarse as pain thrummed behind his temples. “What is it that you want?”

The Holder went very still and very quiet for a moment. Then, he spoke. “I want to tell the truth.”


	12. FIFTY-FOUR

Bilbo shivered at night. It was not cold, and he was not unwell, but his body was wracked with trembles that he simply could not shake off. He huddled under his heavy bed covers and nervously wrung his fingers in the corner of his sheets as he tried to find sleep, but his eyes simply would not close.

_Are you alright, Bilbo?_

He startled at Thorin’s quiet, deep voice, and squeezed his eyes shut. They felt damp and hot. “I don’t know…” He whispered pitifully. He could not get The Holder’s words out of his head. _The truth._ How could everything else be a lie when it was all he knew?

_What is the matter?_

Bilbo turned his face further into his pillows. There were many things that were the matter, but he did not know where to start. 

Perhaps Thorin could feel his confliction, because he then asked, _It is about the dreams?_

“Yes,” Bilbo answered. His voice was muffled by his pillows and he wondered if Thorin could still hear him clearly. 

_Do you want to talk about it?_

It was an innocent enough question, but it made Bilbo feel at odds with himself. He did not want Thorin to worry over him, and Bilbo’s concerns felt incredibly personal, but there was a part of him that desperately wanted Thorin’s comfort. “I’m frightened,” Bilbo finally said.

_Why?_

“Because I like them,” Bilbo whispered. “The dreams – the good ones. I want to see more, and that is a bad thing. Dreams cannot be good. And I’m frightened of the nightmares, the bad dreams. Those things that I see, they were _real._ All of this, all of The After, was created to stop it from happening again, but at what cost? At the cost of happiness, of natural behaviour? I do not know what is right and what is wrong anymore.”

Thorin was quiet for a moment. Bilbo feared that he might have fallen asleep again, and that he would be left to simmer in his fears all alone, but Thorin didn’t leave. _I do not think dreams are bad,_ he said carefully, _and I think The Holder certainly knows more than he has told you. Do you know why you are seeing the dreams, and no one else has?_

Bilbo shook his head, though he knew Thorin could not see the gesture. “The Holder did not tell me,” he whispered. “He said that only Holders had dreams, but I am not a Holder.”

Thorin hummed. _That certainly is puzzling… Perhaps you are just exceptional._

“I am no more exceptional than anyone else in the Community.”

_To me, you are incomparable._

A terribly warm flush spread to Bilbo’s cheeks. A strange sort of nervousness was fluttering in his stomach, and very faintly he felt the tendrils of a dream he’d dreamt encompass his mind. They had called this feeling _stomach butterflies_ and although he did not know what that meant, he knew that he was experiencing it. Thorin’s compliments meant more to him than he had previously realised.

 _There must be some part of you that is unlike the rest of us, Bilbo,_ Thorin said quietly. _Perhaps it isn’t a part of you that is bad, but rather a part that we are all simply unfamiliar with. I know I do not understand, and I can only offer what my best impression is, but I trust in your abilities, and I doubt The Holder would lead you astray._

“That’s the problem,” Bilbo whispered. “His version of astray and mine are quite different. What if he thinks what he’s doing is right, when it only causes me harm? I do not know if I want to be so like him.”

 _There does not seem like there is much either one of us can do to fix this just yet,_ Thorin said. _I am concerned that the Leaders have taken an interest in you, or me, or anyone with a… condition, like ours. If they found out…_

Bilbo could hear the word lingering on Thorin’s tongue. _Elsewhere._ Shakily, he swallowed and tightened his fingers in his bedsheets as if they could possibly keep him grounded. Thorin was right, though it pained Bilbo to think it. Somehow, even though he was still incredibly cold on the inside, he thought he might be able to sleep now. “Thank you for helping me,” he whispered to the darkness of his room. “You did not have to.”

_I will always help you, if I can._

 

He dreamed of war again, that night. His dreams told him that there were many forms of war, and not all of them were fought in scorched deserts with loud weapons and machines. Some wars were on the inside, and were frightfully silent. However, no matter what kind of war it was, there were always casualties. Always.

Before his dreams, he had not truly known what it meant to die. He was frightened of it, frightened of his dreams and of The Holder, of his own uncertainty. Still, a part of him had begun to ache for the things he saw in the good dreams. He wanted to listen to music and see the ocean and feel the emotion of an unbridled love with someone he cared deeply about. When he thought about how he would be assigned a wife in a few short weeks he felt sick to his stomach. 

There was more for him out there. He had seen it, had experienced it. He had felt the enjoyment of music and tasted the saltiness of a breeze washing over the ocean. He wanted things to be different, no matter how apprehensive he was about change. The more he dwelled on it, the more he thought that The Holder’s desire for truth was perhaps not as repelling as he had first believed it to be.

The next day, he visited The Holder. More than anything, he wanted to be able to control what he would dream about. The Holder had said that nightmares were born from irrational fear, and Bilbo knew that warm memories would bring warm dreams. There must be some way to control it – if growing up in the Community had taught him anything, it was that everything was controllable, at least to some degree.

“I did not expect you to come back so soon,” The Holder said when Bilbo arrived. When Bilbo had told him what he wanted, his unnameable expression had deepened, but he did not turn Bilbo away.

The Holder was a strange man, and there was no conceivable reason for him to turn down an equally strange request. 

“I want to learn,” Bilbo told Thorin as he settled himself in at The Holder’s house. “I want to control this, so that I can fix the part of myself that was broken by it. I will be good.”

 _I know you will be,_ Thorin had said. 

Bilbo would learn, because he had to. It was not a means of escaping his fear, he thought, and it was not avoiding it. All that he now had was time, time that was fast running out, and even though it was not much it was better than nothing. All he had to do was make it through one night, just one at a time, and he was sure he would get what he it was wanted – to fill that mysterious hole in his chest.

It wasn’t love just yet, but whatever it was, it was better than dreaming.


	13. SIXTY-TWO

Bilbo spent much time with The Holder after his initial confrontation. Excuses came readily when he was asked about it, though he somehow managed to convince himself he was not lying. He was going to The Holder for guidance; he was checking up on The Holder’s health. Just perhaps not in the way his words initially implied.

Dreams, predictably, were controllable. The more Bilbo learned about them, the more he delved into their existence, the less he thought they were what the dreams from The Before had been. He read that dreams were experiences made up by the mind that one was only able to encounter when asleep. What he dreamed of, however, was not something he made up – rather, it was _memories,_ and they were very real.

He was just reliving them.

The Holder could control the memories. Bilbo eventually realised that that must be his job – he held the consciousness of The Before in his mind and was thus able to sort through and distribute them according to his will. It was how he had forced Bilbo to experience good memories, and how he had known that the book would do much the same. 

Though he did not speak with The Holder often, he did take advantage of The Holder’s books. He had enough to fill an entire library, more than Bilbo had ever seen, and they were all about The Before. He read until his eyes hurt, learning about things he had never needed to consider before, and oddly enough, he enjoyed himself. 

“The dreams are controllable,” The Holder said as he observed Bilbo reading. “But only a Holder can do it. There has never been someone who did not hold this position that experienced them, so I admit I do not know what to make of this.”

“It only started once I received a SoulBand,” Bilbo said as he absently flicked through a book written about soulmates. It was… insightful, to say the least. “It must be because of that. Has there been no other who suffers the same as I?”

“Never.”

Bilbo did not like being an exception, not for this reason. When he read about soulmates in The Holder’s books, there was no mention of shared memories. There were some instances where soulmates could share their own memories but it was a talent that only some had, and it took a long time to focus it. There was no record of a single person holding _all_ memory.

Aside from his business with The Holder, Bilbo also found himself preoccupied with his career. Soon the Accession Ceremony would be held, and he would become a Mender. He looked forward to it. Amongst the confusion and the mystery of soulmates and dreams, his career seemed like home. He wanted to be a Mender. He wanted to help people, and the best way for him to do that was to work in the Mending Centre.

When he learned more about dreams, his nightmares began to ebb away. The dreams were almost like a map in his mind, one he was now learning to read, and he found that there were more things for him to see that he enjoyed. After each night controlling the direction of the dreams became easier, like he was strengthening a muscle, and soon enough he could steer himself towards a feeling or experience he desired. 

He liked visiting the adventures from The Before. He’d read in a book that adventures were travels people went on to explore the world, to experience new things. To enjoy themselves. They ate foreign food and saw great structures built hundreds of years before their birth. He felt their wonder, their excitement, and all the things they experienced when they found hidden spectacles and felt a rush of adrenaline. No one in the Community had ever, or would ever, experience the same thing.

Except the Holders.

It made no sense that Bilbo could experience the same things. He was confused, but he liked to dream of music, and of dancing, and of the small joys people sought out. He thought that perhaps he might be able to find the same joys in his own life – Thorin’s voice in his head made him happy, as did taking baths even though they were not as regulated as showers. He liked taking an evening walk around the Community too, when he had the time.

And he liked working at the Mending Centre, of course. Even when he had been only a Nine, it was the Mending duties that he was the most proficient at. His aptitude skills were the highest there, and it had come as no surprise that he was assigned a pre-career in that particular field of expertise. 

Regardless, having his dreams settle into something controllable was reassuring. His fear subsided until he almost forgot about it. Speaking to Thorin about what he dreamed became easier when he had things to say that would not frighten him.

It was one afternoon when Bilbo was taking a walk he’d made time for that he ran into Thorin. It was so unexpected that he could not help but burst into a wide smile as he greeted Thorin as politely as he could. There was no way that their relationship could be construed as anything other than polite when they were out in the open like this. 

“It is nice to see you again,” Thorin said as he fell into step beside Bilbo. “How is your work progressing?”

“Well,” Bilbo answered. He added _safe conversations_ to his growing list of small enjoyments. “And yours?”

“It is progressing finely,” Thorin answered with an easy smile. Had Bilbo not known him so well he would not have noticed the amusement plucking at the corner of Thorin’s lips. It was an honest smile, one Bilbo did not think he was witness to regularly. “Tell me Bilbo, are you free this afternoon?”

He was, and he was more than happy to spend his afternoon with Thorin. He had done similar things with his neighbours, and he knew that anyone watching would not be able to say it was anything other than friendly. Although he disliked being so conscious of his actions, there was much he had to keep hidden, and it was best to hide important things in plain sight.

 

That evening, very late at night, Thorin’s voice in his head woke Bilbo.

“Thorin?” He murmured sleepily, peeling his eyes open. 

“I’m here,” Thorin said.

Bilbo jumped as his heart leapt into his throat. He still found it hard to distinguish where Thorin’s voice came from, but he was most certainly right beside Bilbo now. “T-Thorin?”

“You were dreaming,” Thorin whispered. His fingers were cold when he tentatively reached out to help Bilbo sit up. “And I saw it.”

Bilbo’s eyes widened as all sleep fled from his system. “What did you see?” He asked, panicked. Dreams were still sometimes faint impressions behind his eyes, ones that he sometimes could not hold onto. He did not think he had dreamed of anything bad, but he feared for Thorin greatly in case he had. “Tell me, Thorin.”

“I do not know the word for it,” Thorin said quietly. He took a seat on Bilbo’s bed, and for once Bilbo was glad the room was so dark that the cameras were unlikely to pick up anything substantial. “But I think I saw the ocean, and I heard... sounds.”

“It was music,” Bilbo let out a deep breath and pressed a relieved hand over his heart. “You heard music.”

Thorin nodded. “I like it,” he said, “why don’t we have it now?”

“It makes people feel… things,” Bilbo said, “things that are not regulated. There are many things like music that no longer exist.”

Carefully, Thorin laid down beside Bilbo, and Bilbo joined him. “I wish I could see more,” Thorin said quietly. “Can you show me?”

“In the books I read at The Holder’s home,” Bilbo whispered, “it says that some soulmates can share personal memories. No one ever has all of them, like The Holder, but things they’ve experienced can be shared, if they have a talent for it.”

“You have a talent for it,” Thorin summarised.

“Perhaps,” Bilbo agreed quietly. “Perhaps it’s because I have the other memories, the memories of The Before. I might be able to share them with you, if I can control it.”

It was the first time he had ever said out loud that he and Thorin were soulmates. It was not that direct of a statement, but the implication was there, and it made Bilbo’s cheeks embarrassingly hot. He was incredibly aware of Thorin’s presence next to him, so close he could hear Thorin’s soft breathing and feel the dip in the mattress Thorin caused.

He did say anything when Thorin’s hand inched over so that his fingers could cover Bilbo’s. It was a warm gesture. A welcome one.


	14. SEVENTY-EIGHT

The Holder soon began to give Bilbo memories when it became clear he had some semblance of control over them. He could only do it when holding Bilbo’s wrists, but he had the ability to choose what Bilbo saw and he was careful only to show him good things. Bilbo liked seeing the adventures of The Before.

“Did you have a name before you became The Holder?” Bilbo asked him one day as he searched for a new book to read. The Holder was sitting in his armchair, a book clutched limply in his hands as he gazed out of the large, circular window. 

“I did,” The Holder answered, “but Holders cannot have names, and so it was forgotten.”

Bilbo hummed. He – and all those in the Community – knew nothing about The Holders. There was still much he did not know, but he could sense that some topics were completely off limits. SoulBands, for example, were one of those such topics. Bilbo wanted to know how The Holder had gotten them, and how they were implanted so seamlessly, and how they worked. He wanted to know if The Holder had one, and if he had had a soulmate. 

Perhaps he was only so interested in this Holder because he happened to be the one Bilbo knew. There had been other Holders, but just like this one they were nameless and unmemorable. Had this Holder known them? He had so many unanswered questions, and the more he thought on it the more they surfaced.

“I’ll be returning to the upstairs levels for a short while,” The Holder said as he pushed himself upright. “I find myself rather fatigued today.”

Bilbo cast him a critical glance, but nodded his assent. The Holder was looking particularly pale, though Bilbo knew it could be accounted to a lack of sleep. He watched The Holder make his way back up the stairs before turning back to the bookshelves. He didn’t know what he was searching for, but he was sure he would find whatever it was.

On one of the higher shelves, a book fell loose. It was not the one he had reached for but he lifted it from the ground nevertheless. It was a moderately sized book, and there was nothing particularly noticeable about it. When he turned it over, its cover simply read _Renascence._

It was not a word he had heard of before, but he knew The Holder kept a book of word definitions around somewhere. When he searched for the title of the novel in the word book – a dictionary, though not the sort of digital dictionary Bilbo was used to – the corresponding page was missing. He frowned and checked the previous page, the _ra-_ page, and the next, the _res-_ page, but _¬ren-_ was gone. When he inspected the book closer, he found tiny pieces of paper left torn at the spine, and his frown only deepened.

Had someone ripped the entire page out?

That made the _Renascence_ book a little more interesting. He moved over to The Holder’s armchair and took a seat, the book in tow. It felt heavier now that some sort of noticeable importance had been put on it. 

Carefully, he opened the first page.

 

_It was a nice day outside. Every day was nice. A perfect day for an Accession Ceremony, if anyone were to ask. He just knew he would be assigned to the Learning Centre; it was where his affinity was the strongest, and where his pre-career had been. He was ready for it._

_Predictably, the ceremony was carried out as easily and orderly as it had the previous year. He followed his fellow Sixteens – though now newly turned Adults – onto the centre platform where they waited in neat lines for their names to be called. He listened to his friends be assigned their careers, to the polite applause of the Community in the audience, to the sound of new paths being carved. There was not a single thing out of place; not a word, not a hair, not a step. It was familiar, regulated; it was perfect._

_Careers were assigned in groups of a specific job – the Constructors were always first, for example, and those at the Nurturing Centre and Mending Centre were last. He thought it was because the Community members who looked after people were the most important, though he never shared his opinion. Construction and maintenance was just as important, after all. All roles were equal, but some – like healing the ill and raising the next generation – always appeared to be just a little bit more significant._

_It was for that reason that he believed the Learning Centre careers were towards the end, as well. He listened, his heart racing with enjoyment, for his name to be called as Teaching Careers were soon assigned. Names were called and people walked up one by one, but he did not. When the next career was called – “nurturer” – his heart sank. He glanced to the people beside him, and found that they were rapidly thinning. Had his impression been wrong? It must have been._

_When all the careers were assigned, he remained on the stage. He wore his polite smile and clenched his hands tightly behind his back to stop them from shaking. Something felt incredibly wrong, but then his name was called._

_“Elrond Rivendell, please step forwards,” a Leader called._

_He did._

_“With a clear passion for learning and a desire to achieve wonderful things, Elrond has been assigned a very important role. It is our hope that your new career finds you flourishing and prospering,” they continued. It was much the same thing they said for everyone, but he did not feel proud like his companions._

_The polite smile on the face of the Leader was suddenly very frightening._

_“Elrond Rivendell, a Holder of Conscious.”_

 

 _He had loved a beautiful girl, once. Back when he was Elrond, and not_ Holder. _He missed her, and wished that her smile would once again grace his dreams, but it was not meant to be. Holders… They were afforded many things, but love was not one of them._

_His beloved had been assigned to Elsewhere shortly after their Ascension Ceremony._

 

_She was nervous. Although her parents had assured her that her chosen career would suit her perfectly, she found that her heart was fluttering very wildly within her ribcage. It reminded her of the butterflies she saw in her dreams._

Don’t be too nervous, my dear, _a sweet voice whispered in her head._ I’m right here with you.

_She breathed out deeply, and surveyed the crowd of Community members filling the hall. There was not a single seat empty. It was perfect, and she knew her career would be, too. There was no place for imperfections in the Community, after all. Still, that did not stop her from anxiously rubbing her left wrist where it was safely hidden behind her back. She had thought her career would be in the Nurturing Centre, with the Ones and infants, but that section of careers had already been assigned. Perhaps she was better suited to something else._

_Soon enough, she was the very last person standing on the stage. She hoped her nervousness was not visible on her face, but she had always been exceptional at hiding unfavourable emotions. Especially of late._

_“Galadriel Lorien,” a Leader called, “please step forwards.”_

_She did._

_“With a heart full of grace and thoughts geared towards kindness and acceptance, Galadriel has been assigned a very important role. It is our hope that your new career finds you flourishing and prospering,” they continued._

_The polite smile on the face of the Leader was suddenly very much like the expression a snake wore before it positioned its unsuspecting victim._

_“Galadriel Lorien, a Holder of Conscious.”_

 

_She did not know what happened to the last Holder. He had disappeared after becoming incredibly ill, and then his home was hers, and it was her restlessly pacing its confining walls. One window into a world she knew to be false was not enough._

_Although she did not know what happened to the last Holder, she did know what had happened to her soulmate._

_There would be no more sweet whispers in her head._

 

_“Thranduil Greenwood, please step forwards,” a Leader said._

_He did. His face was stony. Something was wrong._

_“With a mind guided by knowledge and a sense of both justice and righteousness, Thranduil has been assigned a very important role. It is our hope that your new career finds you flourishing and prospering,” they continued._

_The polite smile on the face of the Leader was very false, and with a deep exhale he closed his eyes. Very wrong, indeed._

_“Thranduil Greenwood, a Holder of Conscious.”_

 

_“Bard Bowman, please step forwards.”_

_“Aragorn Elessar, pleas step forwards.”_

_“Tauriel Silvan, please step forwards.”_

_“Eowyn Rohan, please step forwards.”_

 

_Elsewhere, Elsewhere, Elsewhere, Elsewhere._

_Elsewhere was for soulmates. For Holders. For the ill, for the elderly, for the expendable. For the uncontrollable. For anyone that proved to be independent, that proved to think for themselves, that proved to love someone that had not been chosen for them._

_It was the end of dreams._

 

With a violent start, Bilbo surfaced into subconscious. He was gasping for air, and his cheeks were wet, and his throat burned. His mind was swimming with the ghosts of dreams he had not dreamed, and in a fit of emotion he screamed and threw _Renascence_ across the room. It clattered to the floor with a dull bang, its blank pages spread open.

“Why did you read that?” The Holder demanded angrily as he rushed down the spiralling staircase. “What have you done?”

Bilbo clutched at his head and whined. Pain had burst behind his temples in a flurry of sharp jabs and hazy impressions, and no matter how hard he willed them away they would not leave. He felt sick, and his knees buckled, sending him to the floor. Memories from previous Holders swam before his eyes in a storm of names and heart wrenching surges of emotion that he could not withstand. 

All of the Holders had had a soulmate, just like he did.

“I need to leave,” Bilbo choked out, staggering to his feet again. “This is- this is very bad, I will not stay, I cannot-”

“I’m sorry, Bilbo,” The Holder murmured, catching Bilbo by the shoulders. Even when Bilbo let out a protesting cry he did not let go, and he only held on tighter as if he could ever offer any support. “But you will be the next Holder.”


	15. NINETY-FOUR

Bilbo’s memories of the Ascension Ceremonies he had attended were hazy at worst and fragmented at best. They were the same each year, and followed an order that he soon became accustomed to. Every person had their place in the hall; a seat claimed as theirs, though not verbally. There was an order to it; an easiness.

Greetings were always first. At least one of the five Leaders would be physically present, if not more, to dictate the necessary speeches. Those unable to attend would make their apologies through live-streamed holograms – apologies that were, of course, readily and methodically accepted by every person in the Community present.

After the greetings came the assignment of Ones. Each infant would be presented, wrapped in a plain white blanket and a tiny white beanie, by a Nurturer to the new chosen parents. During this they would be awarded a name to signify their place in the community. Useless things, after all, did not need names. He always thought that seeing the Ones go to their homes was an appropriate way to start the ceremonies; that it reminded them of where they had been and what they had already accomplished. 

Those retiring to Elsewhere were next. They often left in pairs – married pairs – and were always the elderly. He did not know their exact age, but their departure was a reminder of what was to come; Elsewhere, a land of luxury and perfection. He used to believe that the smiles on the faces of those departing were honest and exciting; something to look forward to in his own old age. Perhaps they were only unknowing.

The Threes were next. They were welcomed into the schooling system, assigned to groups and teachers. After the Threes came the Nines. They were gifted their bicycles and transitioned into a higher education system where they were taught about careers. Predictably, the Sixteens came next. They were given a short congratulatory speech, each detailed to fit their personality, and then they were assigned their pre-careers. After that, they were given their homes. It was a handful of freedom being handed over all bundled up within an unimaginably unimportant key. 

Lastly were the Adults. They were assigned careers – the jobs they would maintain for the remainder of their life – and they were given new homes. In just one short year after that they would be assigned wives and husbands, and the marriage would commence. A household would be made. Then, after that, at the next Ascension Ceremony, a One would be assigned to the married pair and the cycle would begin again. It seemed simple, but it made him uneasy, now. It felt impersonal, though it had previously not seemed so. 

The Ascension Ceremonies were the catalysts for all progress in the Community. He understood that now. It was where the essence of life in the Community was set into motion, however unwilling or unnatural. On the surface, the Ceremonies seemed faithful and regulated, as though they were designed to absolute perfection. Perhaps they had been, but the more he thought about it the more he believed that perfection as unattainable. All of their lives they were watched so that the Leaders could guide them down the path wherein they would become as useful as possible, but that in itself was a faulty idea.

People changed. Or, they used to. Were they so different from the people of The Before that they needed their lives to be dictated? His dreams spoke of mistakes, but they were learning processes, too. One could not improve themselves without first exposing the problem, and in the Community, problems were treated as imperfections. It did not matter how slight they were. Illness, ageing, disobedience or doubt or even change, no matter how minute – it was all signs of imperfection, of _faultiness._ And imperfections… Imperfections were always assigned Elsewhere. 

At times he wondered what had happened to The Before. Places like the Community, with all its Rules and its perfection, were not created overnight. It could not be that simple. Even in all the books he read there was no mention of what had happened, and if it was so boundless that it could not even be translated into words, then perhaps he did not want to know after all. It might have been better if he didn’t. 

From what he had seen, The Before had been very different. Children and adults alike were not divided into groups of age brackets; there were no _Ones_ and no _Threes_ and no _Nines._ Careers were not designated, and were not life-long. They were chosen by a person, and sometimes they did not suit the job. They were released from their career, and they sought out new ones. There were so many jobs that he could not count them all; far more than there were in the Community. It was inconceivably _different._

He wondered what it would have been like to know his biological mother and father, like the children of The Before did. Surely they would have been wonderful people. They would have been _family._

In The Before, family had been very different, too.

That day was the day of the Ascension Ceremony. He did not know how he had gotten home, or what had happened after he left The Holder’s. He could not remember. Like many things, he had chosen to forget it, because forgetting was easy in the Community. It had not been long, however; that was something he knew like an instinct, something bone deep and riveting. 

Something he could not ignore.

The Before had had words for the feelings he was drowning in. He did not know them, but he was comforted by their phantom existence. He knew he was not alone in what he felt, even if there was no longer anyone around to know such things.

Like all the other members of the Community, he made his way to main hall. His body moved without him telling it to. He felt like a spectator, as though he was watching himself do it. He thought that maybe he was a little early, and he could hear a buzzing in the back of his mind, like a presence he could not quite dust away.

It was only dimly that he thought it might be Thorin trying to contact him, but that thought of him only sent shivers down Bilbo’s spine. Not the good kind. He kept Thorin away without meaning to, and made no move to allow him in even when he did notice. There was something that first had to be done, something that Thorin should not ever know about.

On the platform in the centre of the main hall, a single Leader stood observing. It was the same Leader Bilbo had met before, and her cold eyes watched him with a sharp glint he could not name. If it were any other day then he might have been intimidated or frightened by her, but as it was he felt nothing. 

“How many I help you today, Bilbo?” She asked as he approached. Her eyebrows drew together when he did not immediately answer her, and her head delicately tilted to the side as though she were truly considering him as anything other than a nameless person for the first time. Her gaze only became sharper when Bilbo dragged his eyes from the floor to meet hers.

The words that fell from his mouth had been stewing in his mind for what felt like months, and he knew deep down he had no control over them anymore.

“I want to be released to Elsewhere.”


	16. ZERO

The Ascension Ceremony began as it always did. People filed in without commotion and slowly but surely all of the seats in the main hall were filled. There was nothing out of place, and not a single person missing. It was entirely perfect. Regulated. 

Except for Bilbo, who had taken his seat before all others had arrived. He sat with his shoulders slumped, unlike the others. His hands were not politely clasped, unlike the others. His ankles and his knees were not pressed together, unlike the others. He was not like the others, so why should he act like them? He would not be punished for his disobedience. The Leaders would not punish him.

Holders were only punished one way, after all. They were punished with _isolation._

He had asked to be released to Elsewhere. He wanted to escape what would happen to him, to pretend he did not know it would happen at all. The Community was an easy place to forget things, so why could he not forget this ordeal had ever happened, too? He knew what would happen when the Ascension Ceremony was over, and every time the thought of it passed through his mind his stomach seemed to drop a little further. 

He knew what would happen, and he did not like it. He was frightened, but not for himself. He had seen the memories of past Ascension Ceremonies; the Ceremonies where Holders had been assigned. He knew what was going to be done to make him comply, and no matter how hard he thought he could not see a way to fix it. Everything was broken. Even himself.

It was in stony silence that he listened to the greetings offered by the Leaders. He did not reciprocate them. He listened to the apologies from those who could not make it in person, as well, and he did not accept them. The people seated on either side of him seemed weary of his silence, though they did not say anything. They were being polite, after all; just like they had been taught. 

The motions of the Ascension Ceremony seemed foreign to him now. He watched the Ones being given to people who had not created them or raised them or nurtured them and he wondered how anyone grew up feeling loved. How could maternal and paternal bonds be so easily replicated? It felt incredibly wrong. How could The Holder stand to live in a place like this?

Even as he thought it, he knew what the answer was. Humans were exceedingly complicated creatures, even those that had been so regulated that they no longer had natural instincts, like those living in the Community. Above all else, however, was a human’s desire for compassion – for a connection. In The Before, that connection had been satisfied by many things. Biological love, friendship, random acts of kindness and a love so deep it was embedded directly in their souls; only now had he realised what souls were, and that perhaps the hole missing in him was not something Thorin could fulfil, but instead lead him to.

The After had eradicated that. Compassion in The After was all but non-existent; instead, they thrived on conceived politeness and a regimented routine that was so perfect that no deviations were ever craved. There was a balance of liveness that kept humans compliant, and without memories of The Before there was no motivation one could have to defy the Rules.

As a soft, congratulatory round-of-applause filled the room, Thorin’s voice smoothly burst forth into his mind. _Bilbo!_ He whispered frantically, _are you alright? What happened?_

“No,” Bilbo answered, “I am not alright.”

The person beside him cast him a wary glance again, though he could not bring himself to care. The Holders, after all, were allowed to break the Rules. They were allowed to lie. They were exceptional.

As much as his heart squeezed painfully at the thought of Thorin and what he now represented, Bilbo couldn’t help but be comforted by Thorin’s voice. That space in his head for Thorin pained him when it was empty or when he pushed it away, but that was only because he craved it so fiercely. 

Perhaps that desire of his could be considered compassion. 

When it came time for the Sixteens, now all almost or exactly twenty years of age, to be assigned their careers, Bilbo made his way up onto the podium with his companions. These were the people he had attended school with, who he had known for his entire life, but now they felt like no more than strangers. He did not know when that had become so true.

He had stood on this stage before. As a One, he had been carried, but as a Three, a Nine and a Sixteen he walked up onto its wide platform himself. All of the Sixteens becoming Adults were lined up in neat rows. They all stood in the same, dignified way with their hands clasped behind their backs as they awaited their name to be called. He thought that in any other case he would have been nervously excited, but he only felt drained, and exhausted.

He knew his name would not get called until the end, so he tried to block it out. The voices of the Leaders were like scratches in his head, but he could force them out. Just like he could force Thorin out, they were moveable. 

_Bilbo,_ Thorin whispered very quietly, _what is happening? I cannot feel anything from you anymore._

“It will be alright,” Bilbo said. It had to be alright, at least for Thorin. Every instinct he had told him that he had to make sure Thorin was alright, that what happened to the soulmates of the other Holders did not happen to him. There had to be something he could do, and whatever it happened to be, he was willing to do it.

As the Constructors were called, Thorin’s name was said. Bilbo watched him with piercing eye, as though if he lost sight of Thorin he would be lost forever. Of course that did not happen, and Thorin safely walked off of the stage. Bilbo could see his figure take its seat in the audience, and that was that. Oddly enough, without Thorin on the stage, Bilbo felt a little less impassive. 

When he had asked to be released Elsewhere, the Leader had not answered him. Her silence had been answer enough, however, and he had turned away from her without any apology.

The lines of people on stage began to thin until there was only five, then three, then one person left. The last career faction to be called was always the Mending Centre; some wishful part of him believed that perhaps the current Holder had been wrong.

But he had not been wrong because the Leader had been silent.

“Bilbo Baggins, please step forwards,” the Leader said.

He did.

“With a calm mind and a heart full of compassion, Bilbo has been assigned a very important role. It is our hope that your new career finds you flourishing and prospering,” she continued. 

_Compassion._ They did not know what it was, and he doubted they ever would.

“Bilbo Baggins, a Holder of Conscious.”


	17. SEVENTEEN

After the Ascension Ceremony, Bilbo did not join his fellow Community members in their polite celebrations and congratulations. It no longer felt like his place. Instead he keenly watched the Leaders, and followed those that were physically present into the back corridors of the main event hall. 

He had not seen the memories from the previous Holders after the end of the Ascension Ceremony, but he supposed that did not matter. The Leaders would expect him.

The three that had been present – the Leader he had spoken to, Sharp Eyes, and Light Hair – were seated in a large office simply decorated with minimalist furniture and a desk wide enough for them all to sit. Bilbo kept his face as impassive as he could as he opened the door to allow himself in. Vaguely he felt the urge to ask forgiveness for his intrusion, but he did not cave in.

Holders did not need to follow the Rules, after all. 

“What is it you expect me to do?” Bilbo asked. He did not shy away from their criticising stares, but he did squeeze his fingers tightly behind his back to stop them from shaking. The Leaders were far more dangerous now that he was _exceptional._

“You are our new Holder of Conscious,” Light Hair answered. “That is all.”

“Is it?” He challenged, frowning. “I don’t believe you.”

“Are you saying we are lying?” Sharp Eyes interjected. 

Bilbo pursed his lips. Holders could lie, but no one else could. Were the Leaders exceptions, too? It certainly seemed like it, but he was incredibly unaware of the secrets they had neglected to share. “I am saying that I believe I know more than you are giving me credit for,” he started carefully. “And I know what you are going to do.”

Sharp Eyes gave him a narrow stare. “You’ve been spending much time with the old Holder of late,” he said. It sounded like an accusation. “What has he told you?”

“Nothing,” Bilbo said. He squared his shoulders. “I dream.”

“Dreams,” Sharp Eyes said, “do not exist.”

“Dreams exist when one stops believing in perfection,” Bilbo said. “But perhaps you are right; they are not dreams. They are memories.”

“That is impossible,” Leader said, “Holders do not transfer memories until after the Ascension Ceremony.”

Bilbo thought back to the memories he’d taken from _Renascence._ Many of the Holders had been clueless about the memories, but some hadn’t. While he believed the Holder when he said Bilbo had been the only one to ever experience dreams on his own, he did not believe that the previous Holders had prematurely shared memories with the next. How they knew who would be assigned the role, he did not know. Perhaps he would one day, now.

“Improbable,” he said, “but clearly not impossible.”

“You should be careful with how you speak,” Sharp Eyes said, voice strict. “You may be a Holder, but there are limits to our patience. Don’t test them.”

“I do not intend to,” he said quietly, “but I do not wish to end up like The Holder is now. I have seen what will happen, and what happened to the other Holders. I won’t let anything unfavourable occur.”

It was as close to a threat as he could possibly get, and even speaking the words made him feel incredibly uncomfortable. If it got his message over to the Leaders, however, then it was worth it. There was one thing he wanted more than his own safety and peace of mind, something he wanted so much he was willing to act so out of line around people like the _Leaders._

And that was Thorin’s safety.

 

All the houses owned by the Sixteens – now Adults – were vacant by the time he made it home. His possessions had already been moved to his new living quarters, and the corresponding key had been placed on his front doorstep. It was a little surprise to find, one that would have been exciting before. Now it only felt invasive.

Engraved on the little key was the word _Holder._ He would not live in houses like his fellow Adults. Number seventy-three was no longer his. He felt remorseful. 

“Thorin?” He asked as he bent to pick up his new key. “Have you arrived home?”

 _Yes,_ Thorin answered. He sounded oddly pleased, though Bilbo did not know why. _My new house number is thirty-three._

Bilbo sighed, and rested his forehead against his front door. “You sound happy,” he remarked. 

_You contact me first, this time. I am happy._

Bilbo laughed quietly. “I’m glad, then, if that makes you happy. Are you alright?”

 _I am,_ Thorin said. _Did you know that would happen?_

By “that”, Bilbo knew Thorin meant his new career. “Yes,” he admitted as he closed his eyes. “The Holder told me. I did not want it to be so.”

_What does being a Holder mean?_

If he were being honest, he was still unsure about what his new career meant. He would have to learn from The Holder. He did not know what to tell Thorin, and it pained him. He wanted to share the burden that had been placed upon his shoulders, but that in itself was unfair to him. It was Bilbo’s duty to keep Thorin safe now, wasn’t it?

With that thought it mind, he turned away from his old house. “It means nothing good,” he said. “I will be living in The Holder’s home now, until it is made mine.”

_That’s further away than I expected…_

“I know,” Bilbo whispered. Living out of the Community meant that he would no longer be able to see Thorin frequently, and even with their other connection he lamented the loss. He wanted to be closer to Thorin and had thought that Adulthood would be a path to that, but it was the exact opposite. “Thorin, can you promise me something?”

_If it is within my capabilities, then I will promise you anything._

Heat burned in Bilbo’s cheeks, but he did not dwell on that. “If the Leaders come for you, or offer you Elsewhere, deny them.”

 

All of Bilbo’s possessions had already been transferred to The Holder’s home. He did not need to knock on the door for he had a key, and with a sinking feeling in his stomach he let himself in. The house felt cold and unwelcome, and he disliked thinking that this is where he would live for the rest of his life.

He was like a caged animal; collared, and kept under lock and key.

Predictably, The Holder was seated in his armchair, staring out of the window. There was a noticeable slimness to his shoulders, as though his bones had suddenly become larger. When he stood, there was a tremble in his hands. “You’ve received memories of The Before,” he said. He sounded exhausted. “Now it’s time for you to see The After.”


	18. EIGHTEEN

Bilbo read _Renascence._

“Holder’s use this to retain… _honest_ memories of The After,” The Holder had explained. “It is a book only Holders can read, and only Holders can add to. I’ve never quite figured out why, or how it’s done…”

He was somewhat wary of the book, but he knew it was important for him to now understand what he was to become. Reading the book would do that, he was sure of it. For now, he had to follow what the current Holder told him. He needed that guidance.

As expected, _Renascence_ was filled to the brim of memories from previous Holders. Each page he turned revealed something new, and once the page was bared he could not resurface from the memory until it was complete. It was very draining to sit through each memory, and he woke up sore and hungry after each page was complete. In the space of one day he only got through a handful of them before he could simply take no more.

The feelings he received from the memories were difficult to comprehend. They were not his own, and therefore they felt invasive, as though parts of him were being erased to make space for them. They were honest in the most brutal of way; there was no coherent way one could lie in them lest they lied to themselves, and even then Bilbo would see it. Unlike other memories when he experienced them from a person’s specific point of view, in the _Renascence_ memories he had control over what he saw, and his gaze was not guided. 

Of course there were limits to that – he could only see the happenings that occurred around the memory holder, and he was not able to control where the memory went. There was a sense of freedom that had not been in the other memories, however – instead of following one person’s gaze, he was free to look around on his own. 

For the most part, he was witness to their memories of Ascension Ceremonies and dealings with the Leaders. He learned about the careful way they guarded information about The Before, unbeknownst to the Leaders, and how they all mimicked the behaviour of the previous Holder to avoid certain confrontations or irregularities regarding the concealment of memories. He hadn’t expected the Holders to be so secretive, but they were allowed to lie, and withholding information by carefully worded omissions was doing just that.

It made sense, however. There was a balance he hadn’t been aware of, one between the Leaders and the Community that needed the quietness of Holders to exist. If those in the Community learned about what the Holders knew, if they were aware that death and war and sadness had existed, that Elsewhere was simply the easiest way for those who were useless to be _disposed_ of, then surely chaos would happen again.

In the end, it was always up to The Holder of Conscious to guide the leaders into avoiding that. It had always been their job, and would always be for as long as the Community continued to exist. The weight of it seemed to press down on Bilbo’s shoulders more than he had expected it to. When he thought about returning to the Community with all that he knew, he felt sick to his stomach.

Not only were the Holders _punished_ with isolation, but they had to be alone. How could he live with himself around people who so blindly followed the Rules? Who believed that Elsewhere was not in fact death, but paradise? A _reward?_

It was horrific.

 

The evening of the day after the Ascension Ceremony, there was an unexpected knock on the door. Bilbo all but lived in the bottom room of the house, and The Holder had taken to occupying the upper levels, so it was he who answered the door. Bilbo did not know who was there, and was hardly aware of the interruption at all, until The Holder descended down the stairs.

“I shall be out running an errand for the evening,” he said, “make sure you read the last page of that book I recommended.”

“Alright,” Bilbo said, giving The Holder a puzzled look. “I shall see you when you return.”

Abruptly, The Holder drew him into an embrace. “I really am sorry about this,” he whispered, “I know this is not the life you wished for.”

Bilbo blinked every times, and pursed his lips. “It is not your fault.”

The Holder withdrew, and with a last sigh, he turned away. “Read that book,” he said. 

With a start, Bilbo realised The Holder must mean _Renascence._ Was someone listening in on their conversation from the top of the stairwell? He cast a weary glance up there, but it was far too dark for him to see anything. At the end of Renascence was the latest Holder’s memories – could this Holder have already filled out his pages?

“Holder,” Bilbo called as a trickle of concern began to bloom inside his heart, “shall I prepare dinner for your return?”

The Holder glanced back at him. “Of course, my boy.”

As soon as the house was quiet, Bilbo retrieved _Renascence_ and took a seat in the armchair by the window. Briefly, he paused at the page he was up to before shaking his head. He guessed to others that the book must look completely blank, but to him he saw worlds bursting across the pages, drawn from eyes that were not his own. He was sure that it was instinct that told him which pages contained memories and which didn’t.

He closed his eyes and settled in to see the memories the Holder had given him.

 

When he woke, it was with a wheezing gasp for air. His fingers were digging tightly into the arms of the chair and he was sweating all over. Memories flooded the space behind his eyes in painful shafts that only left after he struggled against them for several moments.

The memories from The Holder were raw. They were sharp and piercing and they did not fade like the other ones did. They lingered and burrowed into his brain and dug into every vulnerable part of his mind. 

They were memories from the living, not memories from the dead. 

“Thorin,” he gasped into the empty house. “Thorin!”

 _Bilbo?_ Came the tentative, sleepy reply. _It is the middle of the night, what is the matter?_

“You must come here right now,” Bilbo said urgently as he flung himself upright to pace. “Please, Thorin. You must come.”

_Why? Bilbo, what happened?_

Breathlessly, Bilbo placed his hand over his heart and bent over his knees. He could hardly breathe. “They’ve sent The Holder Elsewhere,” he sobbed, “and they’re going to send you too.”


	19. NINETEEN

Bilbo anxiously stalked up and down the dark entrance hallway as he waited for Thorin to arrive. Through the gaps in the walls he could see the lights from the Community, and he couldn’t help but stare at them. The Community seemed so far away now, both physically and otherwise. It was a completely foreign place to him.

It was dangerous. 

The Holder’s memories had not been anything pleasant. He had not given Bilbo memories of his personal Ascension Ceremony, or even of his time as the Holder of the Community, though Bilbo was sure that was in the book somewhere. No, he’d given Bilbo memories of his time just after the Ascension Ceremony, in which The Holder had demonstrated the same rebellious streak as Bilbo.

His soulmate was killed the next evening. Sent _Elsewhere,_ abruptly after the previous Holder had been called away. That Holder, too, had not returned. Bilbo did not need to prepare a dinner for him tonight. 

But Thorin was. Bilbo reached back into his mind to feel where Thorin’s presence occupied, just to reassure himself that Thorin was still _there._ He didn’t see anyone coming down The Holder’s road, but it was too dark for him to make out anything other than the glowing lights from the Community. It must be close to curfew by now.

“How far away are you?” Bilbo asked as he peered out of the window again. 

_Only a few minutes,_ Thorin answered. _Bilbo, what is the matter? I do not understand._

“It is too dangerous for you in the Community,” he whispered. “The Leaders already know you are my soulmate. They will kill you.”

_K-kill?_

“Send you Elsewhere,” Bilbo corrected. “It is not a good thing.”

Thorin was silent after that, but Bilbo could still sense him, so he did not allow himself to worry too fiercely. The Leaders would not expect Bilbo to have Thorin come to The Holder’s house. They would be preoccupied with The Holder – with their own business. Bilbo knew there were no cameras and no microphones in the house of The Holder.

A lone bicycle appeared on the road. Bilbo hurried to his front door and opened it wide to usher Thorin in. “Bring your bicycle inside,” he instructed. 

Thorin did, and left it standing against the wall as he drew Bilbo closer by the hands. “Tell me what the matter is,” he pleaded. “I am very worried for you.”

Bilbo blinked away the water in his eyes. He was just glad Thorin was somewhere Bilbo could keep him safe. “The Community is not what we think it is,” he said quietly. “They’ve already taken The Holder away.”

“What do you mean?” Thorin asked with a frown as he rested a comforting hand on the back of Bilbo’s head.

“I’ve seen things,” he whispered. “Memories from all of the other Holders, including the one we know. The same thing happened to him when his career was assigned.”

“You can receive memories from other Holders?”

Bilbo went to tell Thorin about _Renascence,_ but thought better of it. That book was only for his eyes, and for his knowledge. No one else would be able to read it other than him. “I can,” he finally said. “The Holders all had soulmates.”

“They did?” Thorin asked, surprised. “What happened to them?”

Bilbo squeezed his eyes shut and leaned forward to rest his forehead against Thorin’s chest. Very, very faintly he could hear the steady thumping of Thorin’s heart. It was reassuring. “They send them Elsewhere after the Ascension Ceremony,” he whispered pitifully, “so that Holders have no motivation to rebel.”

Thorin stiffened, but he did not let the tension stay in his body for long. “I see,” he said quietly. “So I am not safe?”

Bilbo shook his head. It was his fault that Thorin was in danger; if Thorin had not been his soulmate, then this would have never happened. Thorin could have lived out the same peaceful, oblivious life that everybody else did, and although he knew it was wrong, a part of him wished that he had, too. Living in naivety was looking much friendlier than living in complete awareness. 

Thorin sighed, but he nodded. “Alright, I think I understand,” he said. “Are we safe here?”

“I do not know,” Bilbo answered, voice quiet, “but there are no cameras here, and Leaders are not permitted to enter without permission. They will follow the Rules.”

Thorin nodded again, and after a tense moment, they both let out shaky sighs. It was clear that this house was the _safest_ place, but Bilbo did not think anywhere in the Community was completely _safe_ at all. It was clear they could not hide away in here for the rest of their lives, but he did not know what else to do. 

 

Neither one of them felt comfortable sleeping in The Holder’s bedroom, so they shared Bilbo’s. He did not mind. Having Thorin closer eased his buzzing thoughts, and he found that the weight of Thorin pressing into his mattress was endlessly comforting. 

“Do you really think The Holder is gone?” Thorin asked quietly.

Bilbo knew that Thorin did not understand death, not in the same way Bilbo did. He did not have a deep, bone-chilling wariness towards Elsewhere. “He is,” Bilbo said quietly. The dark of the bedroom made his voice seem exceedingly loud. “Even though he said he would come back.”

“I am sorry, Bilbo,” Thorin said. He did not hesitate in reaching for Bilbo’s hand, and comfortingly wrapped his fingers around Bilbo’s smaller ones. “I know he must have been important to you, especially now.”

Bilbo swallowed the lump in his throat and stared straight at the ceiling. “I do not want to be the only one,” he said. He did not like admitting it. “I do not want to have all the memories to myself. They are frightening, and I cannot control them properly yet, not on my own.”

Thorin tightened his hold around Bilbo’s fingers and rolled on his side to face him. “I’m right here,” he said. “Do not forget.”

Bilbo offered him a weak smile. “Thank you.”

Thorin rested his cheek against Bilbo’s chest. It felt incredibly intimate, and the closeness of it made Bilbo’s heart race. He did not think Thorin noticed. “I could become used to this,” Thorin murmured. “I do not want to live in the Community alone, either.”

A strange feeling overcame Bilbo. He had never considered how lonely Thorin might feel, but he vowed to do so in the future. He did not want Thorin to feel isolated, either. That was an appropriate punishment for someone who lived with the memories of past worlds, but not for someone who did not.

Thorin did not deserve to be punished, and Bilbo was made sure that he did not suffer.


	20. TWENTY

Early the next morning, there was a knock on the door. It woke Bilbo with ease, though when he lifted his head he found that it had not yet disturbed Thorin. 

Bilbo considered ignoring it, but that was not his job. He knew he could not hide. It was only after he carefully slipped off of the bed and fixed the covers back over Thorin did he go to answer it. His feet were unsettlingly loud on the metal stairs as he made his way to the upper levels of The Holder’s house – his house.

He expected to see a Leader at his door, perhaps more than one. The person standing at his door was not a Leader. Instead he found himself face-to-face with a Community member, though he did not know them personally.

“H-how may I help you?” Bilbo asked as he gripped the edge of the front door tightly. “The Holder is not here at the moment…”

Surprise briefly coloured the stranger’s face. “Are you not The Holder?”

Bilbo startled. That was… an off-putting thought. Would his name be forgotten eventually, too? “I apologise,” he said quietly, “it has taken me some time to become used to my new career.”

“I accept your apology,” the person said. “I have come to you seeking guidance.”

Bilbo nodded shakily and held the door open. “You may come in,” he said. “What can I assist you with?”

 

After he had shown the Community member out, Bilbo found that he did not wish to sleep anymore. He had not dreamed that night – at least not of anything important or substantial – and the thought of doing so if he did fall asleep again was not favourable. 

Instead he made breakfast. There were many food types he had not tried before that Holders were allowed to taste, and his meals were thus not regulated. He did not eat the same breakfast, lunch and dinner every day of every week like the other people living in the Community. He wondered if Thorin would mind eating the same strange food as a Holder. Bilbo certainly had when he first met The Holder – the last Holder.

It was strange to think of him like that. Bilbo still did not know his name; his real name. Not _The Holder_ It was as though every part of him had simply been erased. To think that someday he would be the same…

He shook those thoughts away. They would do him no good now.

Thorin was still sleeping when Bilbo peered into the room. He hesitated for a moment before inching into the room to shake Thorin awake. Thorin did so with a quiet murmur. His eyes were far darker when he woke, and Bilbo found that the shade they became when he was sleepy was quite alluring. It made Bilbo smile properly for what felt like the first time in months.  
“Bilbo…?”

“It is time to wake up,” Bilbo said, voice gentle. “I’ve prepared breakfast.”

Thorin hummed, and pushed himself upright. “Was there someone at the door earlier?” He asked as he rubbed a hand across his face. “I thought I heard someone…”

Bilbo took a seat on the edge of the bed gingerly. “There was,” he said, staring at his knees, “but it was no one important.”

“Who was it?”

“A Community member. They wanted the guidance of The Holder.”

“But he is not here…”

Bilbo’s eyes flickered over to Thorin for a moment. “I am The Holder.”

Surprise briefly coloured Thorin’s face. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I did not remember.”

“It is fine,” Bilbo answered, sighing, “I did not remember either.”

“What did they want?”

“Guidance,” Bilbo said. “They needed a book regarding their career, and I knew where it was. I gave it to them. It should be of benefit.”

Thorin inched closer, and rested his forehead against Bilbo’s shoulder. “Do not look so forlorn,” he said, “it makes my heart hurt. I am sure that there is a way for us to be alright.”

It was comforting to hear someone else say it, Bilbo thought. Thorin always had a way of sounding convincing. Bilbo could not help but believe in his words. “The Leaders will still come,” he said, “and I do not think they will be pleased with me.”

Thorin hummed again. “What do you think they want?” He asked. “Holders give guidance, and retain memories of the past to better the future, is that right? Would it not be better to keep the soulmates in order to maintain compliance?”

Bilbo shook his head. “No. The more dreams I have the easier it became to control them, and I believe that is partially due to you. No other Holders ever had dreams or received memories before their Ascension Ceremonies.”

“None?”

“None,” Bilbo echoed. “In The Holder’s memories, he told me that the connection a soulmate offers is like extra space in ones mind. If you have one litre of water it will only fit into a one litre jug, but with a two litre jug, one can attain more water. Similarly, with two minds, a Holder can receive memories much faster, and much more frequently. It is as though you…” he waved a hand, struggling to find the right word. _“Amplify_ my abilities.” 

“And that is why soulmates are sent Elsewhere…?”

“It must be,” he sighed. “If… if I were to lose you, I do not think I could bring myself to do anything.”

Thorin turned his face into the crook of Bilbo’s neck. “You won’t,” he said softly. “Lose me, that is.”

Bilbo offered him a hopeful glance, and forced a small smile. He still believed Thorin, however concerned he was for Thorin’s safety. “Shall we have breakfast then?”

 

Halfway through eating – Thorin did not mind the strange food, after all – there was another knock on the door. Bilbo’s eyes flickered to the stairs wearily. “I suppose I must get that,” he said.

“I suppose you must,” Thorin replied. “Shall I wait down here?”

“Do not come up the stairs,” Bilbo nodded. “If anyone starts to come down, go into one of the back rooms. Do not answer if your name is called by anyone other than myself, alright?”

Thorin glanced away, but did not protest. “Be careful, please.”

“I will.”

“And don’t block me out,” Thorin said as he reached out to grasp Bilbo’s wrist. “I want to listen.”

Bilbo hesitated. He doubted another well-meaning Community member had stopped by the house for guidance, which meant that it could only be a Leader at his front door. They must have realised Thorin’s absence from his home by now, and were surely interested in Bilbo’s involvement with that. The cameras in the Community had surely seen something, and anything they saw could certainly not be good for him.

“I won’t,” he promised Thorin. “But I may not be able to reply to you if you speak to me.”

“I understand,” Thorin said. “I will be able to sense your emotions, so do not worry. They come much more frequently to me now.”

“Do they?”

Thorin smiled. “If I amplify your abilities,” he said, “then I am sure you do the same for mine.”


	21. TWENTY-ONE

Bilbo could feel Thorin’s presence sitting heavily in the corner of his mind as he ascended the stairs. He couldn’t help but wonder if he did amplify Thorin’s abilities or not. Thorin was not a Holder and he did not receive memories like Bilbo did, but were there other things he could do? Things Bilbo could not?

It certainly was a gripping thought. He did not want to become a detrimental factor to Thorin anymore than he already was. He only wanted to keep Thorin safe.

 _Try to stay calm, Bilbo,_ Thorin whispered. _I can sense your nervousness._

Bilbo let out a deep exhale and nodded. Thorin was right; he must stay calm. It would do him no good to appear nervous. It would be taken as a sign of guilt, of admission. The Leaders could not know for certain that Bilbo was hiding Thorin away. They could suspect, of course, and very likely did, but there was no solid proof. Yet. 

Predictably, it was in fact the Leaders standing at his door. Two of them – Soft Voice and Sharp Eyes. Briefly, he thought he should have worked out the communications system by now. It would have made these unexpected visits easier. 

“Good morning,” Bilbo greeted politely. “How may I assist you?”

“We apologise for our intrusion,” they said. Coming from them, the words were incredibly eerie. It only made him that little bit more nervous. 

A tense pause filled the air as they waited for Bilbo’s forgiveness, but he did not offer it. He had no urge to. Not for them. He supposed that was the first thing he had learned from The Holder. 

“We’ve come regarding your receiving of memories,” Soft Voice said when it became clear Bilbo would not speak. “It is in our interest to monitor your progress. May we come in?”

Bilbo hesitated. “If you stay where I am, then it is fine. I’m still sorting through The Holder’s things, and I would not like to misplace anything,” he lied.

Soft voice nodded her head in compliance. “Of course.”

Bilbo opened the door wider. He did not miss the searching looks that the leaders gave his new home. Thorin’s bicycle was still propped against the wall, but Bilbo’s had been moved into the bottom of the house so there was no way for them to know it was his. Regardless it still made Bilbo’s heart race anxiously. He knew there was no sign of Thorin in the upper levels of the house, but what if he had missed something? The worry in his head was muddling his thoughts. 

“How will you monitor my progress?” Bilbo asked as he lead them into a reception room where there were neat, regulated chairs placed perfectly around a table. It was a room he thought would blend into the Community without a problem.

“Holders are capable of sharing memories with those who do not have the same… _ability_ as them,” Sharp Eyes said. He sounded disdainful. Bilbo was not surprised. “You will have to learn to do so.”

Bilbo paused for a moment, before glancing away. “I see,” he said quietly. “I don’t suppose you have any idea as to how I’ll manage that?”

“You will figure it out,” Sharp Eyes murmured. He did not take a seat, even though Soft Voice did. “Sooner rather than later.”

Bilbo sat across from Soft Voice. She seemed much more negotiable than her fellow Leader, though Bilbo now knew that appearances could be deceiving. Still, her gentle gaze was far less frightening to face. “The Holder did not personally teach me much,” he told her, “so I do not know how fast I can show you progress.”

“Useless things are not needed,” Sharp Eyes reminded him.

“I am well aware,” Bilbo answers, voice clipped. “Do not underestimate my knowledge of this situation. What I meant to say is that The Holder did not share _details._ I know how to receive memories from dreams, and I received them from him, but they are not instructions. I do not expect you to understand.” 

“It is alright,” Soft Voice interrupted. “You are still in the adjustment period for your new career. You have leeway.”

Bilbo pursed his lips. _Leeway_ did not sound safe. He did not think he had much of it. “I don’t suppose that is the only reason you came here today,” he said. He clenched his hands in his lap under the table to stop them from shaking. He did not think the Leaders noticed.

“Of course that is not the only reason why,” Sharp Eyes answered. “Thorin Oakenshield has gone missing.”

Bilbo startled, but not because of the statement. No, he was surprised to hear a Leader say Thorin’s full name. He supposed it was an important thing to remember, now. He had made it an important thing. “What do you expect me to do about that?” He asked carefully. 

“I _expect_ you to remember your place,” Sharp Eyes said. “There is a balance we must maintain, and by now I am sure you know what we are willing to do to maintain it.”

Bilbo stiffened. He could feel his heart racing wildly in his chest. He knew what they would do; had seen countless memories of it flood his mind. He had experienced the loss that the Leaders could cause, and he would do everything to make sure that would not happen to him. “I know,” he said, standing, “but do not think it will happen again.”

Sharp Eyes gave him another one of his narrow stares. Bilbo found it difficult to look him in the eyes when he did that, but he did not let himself look away. It would be a willing defeat if he did. He knew it was more important now than ever that he make sure he did not appear weak or easily manipulated. He knew it was something the old Holder had feared for him.

“I think it would be best if you left now,” Bilbo said quietly. “I have much work to do, and now I must adhere to your difficult requests. It will take me time.”

Soft Voice stood. “If it is what you wish, then we will comply,” she said. “We are more than willing to follow your requests, as we are with all Holders, but there is an… extent.”

“I understand,” he said. It was also a lie. It was remarkably easy to avoid the truth when he knew he was allowed to. 

He did not accompany them out as they left. Instead he collapsed back into his chair and bent over the tabletop. Their words had clearly been threats, albeit veiled ones. 

_Bilbo?_

“I’m fine,” he said unconvincingly. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

_Do you want me to come up?_

“No,” Bilbo answered. He swallowed, and tried again. “No, I shall be down in a minute.”

He needed a moment to calm down. He’d never been more terrified.


	22. TWENTY-TWO

“Where do we go from here?” Thorin asked as he pressed a cup of tea into Bilbo’s unsteady hands. He had worn a rather concerned expression ever since Bilbo had managed to finally drag himself back downstairs. “The Leaders will never leave you alone.”

“I know,” Bilbo whispered. “I do not know what to do. The Leaders most likely assume you are here, but I do not think they will test my boundaries, not just yet. I think I must first figure out a way to make sure they do not…”

“I understand,” Thorin said when the words would not leave Bilbo’s mouth. He took a seat beside Bilbo on the lounge, cradling his own cup of fresh tea. “There must be something we can do to keep the both of us safe.”

“Must be,” he murmured, “but I do not know what it is. How can I possibly convince them to treat me so differently from every other Holder there has been?”

“You will find a way,” Thorin said, shifting the cup in his hands to rest one on Bilbo’s knee. “We will, I am sure of it.”

Bilbo offered him a weak smile. “I admire your determination,” he said. “I wish there was more I could do to comfort you.”

Thorin matched his smile. “You have already done much for me,” he said. “Including keeping me here, and not Elsewhere. It is not either of our faults that this happened, and I am still incredibly glad to have a soulmate of my own.”

Bilbo flushed. “I am as well,” he said, “but I cannot help but feel I am responsible for putting you in danger. I only want to keep you safe from them.”

“It’s alright,” Thorin said. His grip tightened on Bilbo’s knee, just a little. “We will figure it out. There must be something in all these books that can help us.”

Bilbo glanced around. This part of the house certainly was quite filled with books. There were so many he did not think he would ever be able to read all of them. He had only ever read the ones that The Holder specifically left out for him, ones that contained memories or important information he needed to know before proceeding. He had read a few on his own, of course, but he had not had much time to do so. 

“I hope so,” he whispered to himself. He did not want to think of the extent he was willing to breach in order to keep Thorin safe. All of the things he previously valued – his morals, his obedience, his very nature – had left him. Now, he did not feel afraid to rebel. He did not fear dreams. He half hated himself for it, but it could not be helped. 

If nothing else, he wanted to be around for when Thorin needed him the most. If the memories The Holder left him before he died had told him anything, it was that he had to protect his soulmate, even above himself. It seemed simple to him that he should do that. There was no question about it.

He finally sighed. “I suppose we should start reading, then.”

 

That evening, while Thorin bathed, Bilbo sought out _Renascence._ The book felt painfully heavy in his hands now that he knew what it contained. Those rushed memories left to him from The Holder would always be there, ready for all the future Holders to experience. The thought saddened Bilbo; more people would have to endure the same feelings he did. 

There must be some way to fix everything, but holding _Renascence_ did not make him feel as though it were possible. All of these Holders had been unable to accomplish what he sought out. It was dismal, but they had not had their soulmates with them. 

If Thorin truly did amplify his abilities, then Bilbo might truly be able to change things. If he could keep Thorin safe, then he had motivation to do so. 

With a sigh, he turned open the book to the last page he’d left off at and began. There must be something useful somewhere buried deep in the book, and he was determined to find it.

 

Thorin woke him for dinner. By then, the memory Bilbo was viewing had come to an end and he was able to surface in time to eat. 

“That book is strange,” Thorin said as he eyed _Renascence_ wearily. Bilbo had it sitting in his lap at the dining table he’d dragged into one of the adjacent rooms so that they did not have to return to the upper levels. “Its pages are blank, but I… _sense_ something from it. Something I cannot explain.”

Bilbo pursed his lips and lowered his fork. “It is meant to be for the knowledge of Holders only.”

“I am not a Holder.”

“I know,” Bilbo whispered, “but I trust you.”

Thorin’s eyes softened. 

“It’s called _Renascence,”_ he said, “though I do not know what the word means yet. It’s a book of memories.”

“Of memories?”

“Yes,” Bilbo nodded, “Holders are able to leave memories in the pages that we can then view at will. It is like reading.”

Thorin hummed. “Alright,” he said, “that sounds useful. Could there be something in there that may help us?”

“Possibly,” Bilbo said. “The Holder left information at the end of his section that made me…” The words lodged in Bilbo’s throat, and it took him a moment to work them out. Thorin was patient. “When he was elected as Holder, he had a soulmate. He acted much the same way I did, and foresaw that what happened to his soulmate would happen to mine, so he left me those memories to see. He told me to seek them out before he was taken away.”

With a sigh, Thorin reached across the table to take a hold of his hand. “Bilbo, we will work this out,” he said firmly. “I know that in your head you are suffering on your own, and until you have the ability to share that burden I do not know how to lessen it. But out here,” he said, squeezing Bilbo’s hand, “where you can see and feel things on your own, I am still present. I will not let you down.”

Bilbo searched Thorin’s eyes, looking for anything that was like _him_ – like a liar, like a troubled soul, like a person who could dream of nightmares. Instead, he found nothing but purity. It wasn’t the false perfection of the Community that burned in Thorin’s eyes, but it was something different. It was like the warmth of the sun of The Before, and the feeling he got from going on adventures in the memories of those who were once free and unregulated.

For the first time, Bilbo believed that it was not he who would change the world, but Thorin.


	23. TWENTY-THREE

Half a week later, and both Thorin and Bilbo had discovered nothing to aid them. Bilbo spent hours searching through the memories from the previous Holders, but all had lost their soulmates, and their thoughts stubbornly steered away from any sign of them. Bilbo couldn’t blame the other Holders for that, but it was certainly not helpful.

When he wasn’t doing searching through their memories, he was trying to figure out a way to send memories to those who were not Holders. Of course he had Thorin to practice with, but he thought that the connection offered to them by the SoulBands gave him an extra strength in it. It was an advantage. He’d noticed that Thorin had started to dream more now that they slept in the same bed, and he was fairly certain it wouldn’t be long until he could transfer a memory to him.

That evening, Bilbo finally managed to do it. He was seated in his armchair – it pained him to think of it as the last Holder’s – with Thorin seated on a second chair across from him. He held Thorin’s wrists delicately in his hands, and ran his thumb absently over the small _something_ in Thorin’s skin. 

He tried to remember what The Holder had done with him, and how it had felt. He had to focus on a good memory, because he refused to give Thorin the bad ones, and then it had come forth. When he sunk into the memory of people dancing to pretty music he could feel Thorin’s presence settling in the back of his mind, as though he had caged it up nice and pretty, ready to watch whatever Bilbo showed him.

When he surfaced, Thorin was gasping, bent over their knees. Bilbo had been incredibly concerned, but Thorin was gasping from joyful breathlessness, and not fear or contempt. “What was that?” He had asked when he’d gained his breath back. 

Bilbo had only laughed, just quietly. Thorin’s enthusiasm was contagious. “It was dancing,” he said, “and music.”

“Can we try?” Thorin asked as he suddenly stood. He adjusted Bilbo’s grip so that he could take Bilbo’s hands instead, and pulled him up. “I want to try dancing with you.”

“But we have no music,” Bilbo stuttered, flushing. 

Thorin paused for a moment, then grinned. “That machine they played music from in the memory,” he said as he dropped Bilbo’s hands to rush into one of the side rooms, “the one with the big horn! The Holder has one under a sheet in here somewhere…” He called, and then a moment later there was a short cry of triumph. He came back out carrying a contraption very similar to the one in the memories. After setting it down on the floor by the wall he tinkered with it for a moment, and then suddenly music burst forth.

Bilbo’s eyes widened. The music was grainy and scratchy, but it was still music, and it was beautiful. “How did you know to do that?” He asks, stunned, as Thorin strolled back over.

“I guessed from what I saw in the memory,” he said, taking Bilbo by the hands. “Didn’t you watch?”

“I was watching the people,” Bilbo confessed.

Thorin laughed. He grasped Bilbo’s hand in one of his own and slipped the other down to Bilbo’s waist. Despite the flush on Bilbo’s cheeks he only pulled him closer. “Put your hand on my shoulder,” Thorin instructed. “I want to dance with you.”

Bilbo made an embarrassed noise in the back of his throat but did as he was asked. He had been close to Thorin before, but this felt different. Thorin was quite noticeably taller and broader than he was, and Bilbo liked it. 

Thorin took the lead in dancing. Neither one of them knew what to do nor the proper steps to take but Thorin twirled him around and lead them around the room in time to the music however he wished to. It was enlightening, and when he danced with Thorin he forget all about his troubles. 

Being with Thorin was a lot like that. Bilbo felt relieved from the burden of the memories he received, and free to make his own.

 

Bilbo left his home for the first time after the Ascension Ceremony the next week. He had spent all of his free time scouring the books and working his way through _Renascence_ as fast as he could, and the air of the house was starting to become a little stale. 

He was summoned by the Leaders via a letter they sent to his doorstep. Mail was tedious and impersonal, but it was fitting for them to send. It hadn’t mentioned Thorin at all, but that did not soothe Bilbo in the slightest. Still, he could not refuse them, not if he wanted to keep their interactions civil. Perhaps if he followed most of their orders they would be lenient with him.

He rode his bicycle into the Community after ensuring his house was safely locked up. He had never been to the office of the Leaders, but he knew where it was. When he arrived, the doors opened for him. 

The Leader he had spoken to the most greeted him. “Come this way, if you please,” she said as she led him down a stark corridor. “We have called you in to begin your progress monitoring.”

Bilbo did not reply. He followed him into an office with clear glass doors and took a seat in front of the desk centred into the room. “I am not able to transfer memories to others yet,” he said before she could ask. “I’m still sorting through all of The Holder’s possessions.”

“I see,” Leader said as she took a seat. “And Thorin? How is he?”

 _Do not show her your worry,_ Thorin said sternly. He had been in Bilbo’s head since the moment he stepped out of the front door. _Stay calm,_ Bilbo.

It was easy to comply when Thorin gave an order. “Why else am I here today?” Bilbo asked instead.

The Leader folded her fingers together, and rested her chin on them. She levelled Bilbo with a critical stare. “This sort of situation is unfavourable,” she said. “You must know what it is we want.”

“And you must understand that I cannot let that happen,” Bilbo answered. He clenched his hands and met her stare. “You do not understand what it means to burden this career. It was not my choice, and I did not consent to it. I believe my talents would have been better placed elsewhere, but this is still what you chose for me.”

“It is what was chosen for you, and therefore you must obey the Rules,” the Leader reminded him.

“Holders do not need to obey the Rules,” he said quietly. “Do not misunderstand me; I intend to do the job, and I know what it is you need done.”

“Then why cause these problems?” She asked. “We cannot let anyone overrule us.”

Bilbo hardened his stare. “Have you ever received memories?”

She gave him a surprised look. “Of course.”

“Of what?”

“The Before,” she answered.

“No,” Bilbo said, “tell me what you experienced.”

She paused. “Dancing, the first time,” she said. “Then a field of flowers.”

Bilbo pursed his lips, and stood. “Then you know nothing of The Before,” he said. “When you experience the truth, then I will ask you what it is you wish to do with my life. But before then I will not allow you to take away anything I have.”

Leader did not answer him. After a moment, Bilbo stood and took his leave. 

He had to figure out a way to share memories, for Thorin’s sake. He was afraid of what would happen if he failed to.


	24. TWENTY-TWO

It was on his way home that Bilbo started to feel as though something was off. When he thought about the previous Holder, he realised that he had never particularly seen The Holder leave his home. He attended the Ascension Ceremonies, of course, but he otherwise avoided the Community as much as he was able to. Bilbo did not blame him; he had been doing much the same since he was appointed as Holder. He never really understood why until he started to receive memories.

It was hard to look at the people who so obediently believed in ideas like Elsewhere when one knew the horrifying truth about them.

When he thought back on it, he realised that the Leaders had come to him the first time, too. They did not wait for him to venture out back into the Community on his own. If they only wanted to know if Bilbo was able to transfer memories or not, then they could have sent a letter. Perhaps they came because of Thorin. It seemed unlikely that they would go through the effort of asking him to come into the Community if all they wanted was such a simple yes-or-no question answered. It didn’t make sense.

Until it abruptly did.

“Thorin?” He asked, hesitantly probing into his mind where Thorin usually settled. He found it oddly vacant, which wasn’t like Thorin at all. He said he would stay with Bilbo until Bilbo got home, and yet his space in Bilbo’s mind was empty. “Thorin, are you there? I’m coming home now. Thorin?”

There was no reply.

A cold feeling settled in the pit of Bilbo’s stomach. It was like he had swallowed a rock. He felt sick with worry at Thorin’s pressing silence. He did not know how long he had been gone from the house for, but it couldn’t have been too long, could it? He tried not to let himself sink into any feelings of panic, but it was difficult not to. Thorin had always replied to him, and had never blocked him out. Even when Thorin had been asleep he replied to Bilbo, however tired he was. 

“Thorin,” he tried again, weaker this time. His throat felt constricted. Some part of him expected a reply as though it were instinct, but there was nothing echoing in his head anymore. Thorin was quiet. Silent. 

Or rather, he was not there at all.

Bilbo did not think he had ever ridden his bicycle as fast as he did then. His desire to get home overrode any exertion he felt. The road to his home seemed to stretch on longer and longer the faster he went, and by the time his house finally came into view he was sweating and panting and breathless. A heavy, sour taste had settled on his tongue and the more his mind delved into chaos the more he received flashes of memories from those who had lost their soulmates, both Holder and otherwise. The echoes of their pain wracked his chest and he couldn’t help but clench his shirt tightly as he staggered towards the house.

He did not bother with placing his bicycle down carefully as he rushed to the front door. It was not important to him. His stomach dropped when he found that the door was pushed wide open. It had been locked when he left, he just knew it had been. He remembered locking it.

After swallowing heavily, he moved down the hallway. There was a ringing in his ears that he thought was due to the deafening silence of the house. The entire upper level was in a disarray, as if a harsh wind had torn through the house. Tables were haphazardly overturned and chairs had been carelessly pushed aside with no thought. There was no sign of anyone in the house, not even a quiet murmur.

“Thorin?” He called out. He could not help but squeeze his eyes shut tightly when there was no reply. This time, he did not expect one.

The staircase was unexpectedly dark as he carefully made his way down it. He saw his armchair first, knocked over onto its side. A book that had been resting on its arm was sprawled across the floor. The bookshelves lining the walls had been dragged clean, and all of the papers he had spent the last week organising were strewn and crumpled across the floor. As he lowered himself down off the last step, a book got caught under his foot. He spent down in a daze to lift it and smooth its pages. It was _Renascence._

A choked whine left his throat as he slumped against the cold, metal stairs. Something hot burned in his eyes and before he knew it he was muffling sobs into his hand and throwing _Renascence_ across the room as hard as he could.

He didn’t bother searching the other rooms. Thorin was not here.

 

Bilbo did not know what to do. He couldn’t bring himself to clean or bathe or eat, let alone read or view more memories. He tried in vain to reach Thorin’s mind again, but there was nothing there for him to grasp onto.

No one had ever taught him how to keep his soulmate safe. He could do so many things – ride a bicycle, mend people, receive memories – but he couldn’t do the one thing he was meant to. He had only tried to better his abilities for Thorin’s sake. None of it had been for his own peace of mind. If only he had not left the house…

It was almost evening when he finally managed to drag himself back up to the upper levels of the house. His head was pulsing with pain and his eye felt swollen, but after he washed his face that feeling went down a little. He pulled on another jumper to keep the chills at bay. He had to get Thorin back. He did not know how he would do it, but he would. There was no question about it.


	25. NINETEEN

It took him quite some time to realise what it is exactly that he felt – the ride back into the Community was aptly long enough. He had never felt the simmering in his chest that he did then. It pulsed through his blood and seeped out from between his ribs until every part of his body burned with a heat he had not ever experienced before. It was not a good feeling. It boiled in his head and festered in his heart and he did not know how to erase its existence.

It was anger.

Like many things in the Community, anger was an imperfection. One did not feel angry. One did not understand anger, even in its simplest forms. One did not know that anger existed, much less that they were, deep down, very capable of feeling it. Humans could not be _perfect,_ no matter how hard they tried, and it had taken all of this anguish for Bilbo to understand that. He wanted to celebrate their imperfections, not remove them completely. To him, imperfections had become romanticised – the way Thorin’s hair curled into messy tangles when he woke, the erratic way Bilbo’s heart raced when Thorin told him something affectionate, and even the deeply dependant way Thorin had come to rely on Bilbo’s shaky sphere of protection. It was all imperfect, but he loved Thorin all the more for it.

He loved Thorin.

And he wanted to tell him.

But he was angry. He was angry at the Leaders, and at the Community. He was angry at the past Holders for never doing anything, and at The Holder for leaving him with false pretences and promises he could not keep. He was angry with himself, too. He was angry because he could not do anything, least of all protect Thorin.

Eventually the Community came into view. Curfew was not perhaps for another hour or so yet, but many people were already retiring to their homes. No one payed much attention to him other than shy glances or inquisitive, short stares, but he expected nothing less. He had done the same in the past when he spotted a Holder. To them, he was forgettable. 

He was only an exception to Thorin.

The doors to the office of the Leaders slid open with an inaudible hiss as he approached. He left his bicycle in the bicycle rack, though it was not standing straight. He could not bring himself to care about appearances, however uncomfortable it would make those who saw it. Instead he made his way straight into the Leader’s building. He ignored the questions that guards offered him, and silenced them with a steely, watery stare. They did not ask him any questions again.

A Leader met him at the end of the hall. It was Soft Voice. She had always seemed to be the most reasonable of the five, but that was no longer the case. He gave her nothing but a doubtful, guarded stare.

“Good evening, Bilbo,” she said. She tilted her head to the side, just a little, at his cold silence. “How may I help you?”

The anger in Bilbo does not lessen at her words. It fidgeted beneath his skin and reminded him of the mountains that erupted with fire in the memories of The Before. He was that mountain, now, ready to explode – he felt like he could do anything, even the impossible. So he did. “Do you want to see a memory?”

He stalked forwards before she could answer. Her eyebrows had furrowed, just a little, though he did not think she had noticed. He held out his hand, and insistently reached forwards until she wearily put her fingers in his. The memory of a child being newly born flooded his head, and through his hold on her hand it raced to encompass her unsuspecting mind. He could hear the cries of the child and feel the deep, instinctual ache of the mother who cradled the baby, birthing filth and all, like it was the most precious thing in the world. To her, it was. 

Bilbo could feel Soft Voice begin to tremble. It was an overwhelming memory, but a good one – he did not want her to feel good. It was a selfish, cruel desire of his, but he wanted her to suffer like he had. When he fished around in his head for a memory to do the job, one burst forth – a mother standing over the crib that housed her lifeless child, and the rippling anguish that shook her bones as she choked on her tears and the breaths that her baby had never gotten the chance to breathe. Bilbo drilled _Elsewhere Elsewhere Elsewhere Elsewhere_ into the very marrow of the memory until Soft Voice let out a strangled sound and collapsed.

“Where is Thorin?” He asked as her hand slipped from his grip. His anger was starting to dissipate and he did not want it to yet, not until he had made them _understand._ They had to understand. 

Soft Voice pressed her hand to her mouth, and gestured down the hallway. “Go,” she whispered. 

He did. He tried searching for Thorin’s presence in his mind again, but it was still vacant. He had to be here somewhere. Where else would he have been sent? Bilbo did not know where those who were admitted to Elsewhere went, but he was fairly certain that if Thorin was not there, he would be here. 

A voice startled him out of his disruptive thoughts. “I knew you would come here,” Sharp Eyes said. He watched Bilbo with a ferocity to him that Bilbo wanted to baulk at. “You are incredibly predictable.”

“And you are incredibly naïve to think I would stay quiet,” Bilbo answered. His voice was just as sharp as the Leader’s eyes were. “Where is Thorin?”

“On his way Elsewhere,” Sharp Eyes said. “Surely you did not believe that rules could be bent just for you? You are not as exceptional as you believe yourself to be.”

Bilbo clenched his fists. He did not know if he would be able to transfer memories again, but if it could change this man’s mind, then he would try. Without hesitation, he held out his hand. “Care to test your theory?”

“So that you may show me war and death?” Sharp Eyes shook his head. “I have seen both, and I am not swayed by such trivial matters. You should return home, Bilbo Baggins. There is nothing you can do now.”

Bilbo’s eyes widened, just a fraction. How could he remain so impassive if he’d seen such awful things? Surely he couldn’t be human. “There is more to anguish then war and death,” Bilbo argued. He kept his hand out. “Do you not understand what it is to be human?”

“Of course I understand,” Sharp Eyes said as he batted away Bilbo’s hand. “Being human means being imperfect.”

“Then you should understand,” Bilbo said. His voice was getting louder, now. It was loud with upset. “I will never be like you. Most people will _never be like you._ The way you live now is nothing but imperfect.”

“You misunderstand,” Sharp eyes said, “did you not think it was perfect less than a month ago?”

Bilbo pursed his lips. “I know the truth now,” he said. He held out his hand again. “I will show you.”

Sharp Eyes gave him an incredibly condescending look, but held out his hand. “You will never see Thorin again,” he said.

And it was in that moment that Bilbo knew what to show Sharp Eyes. If he had _experienced_ soulmates, knew how consuming and desirable they could become, then he would never say such things. Bilbo did not know who had shown Sharp Eyes war and death, but they had not shown him soulmates.

Bilbo did. He recalled every memory he could scrounge up and forced it down the link. He remembered the countless times he’d experienced meeting a person’s soulmate, and all the unnameable emotions that accompanied that moment. He lived through their experiences again and again and again, and became attached to the dizzying emotions that such a connection caused. And then, when he was sure Sharp Eyes was emotionally involved, he threw despair at him. He brought up the memories of people losing their soulmate – to war, to illness, to age. To Elsewhere. He gave Sharp Eyes his panic and his pain and his confusion unlined with his love for Thorin and the dedication he felt. 

He gave Sharp Eyes his craving for Thorin’s safety until it was all he could think about, and only then did he release his hand.

Sharp Eyes fell to his knees, chest heaving, as soon as Bilbo’s grip left his. 

“Do you understand now?” Bilbo asked, voice unkind. Sharing all these memories was taking a toll on him, and his head was starting to spin. “Take me to Thorin.”


	26. TEN

Sharp Eyes did not take him, but that did not mean Bilbo could not go on his own. He did not know the way, but there was something in him that desperately told him to keep going. Instincts, perhaps. He reasoned that there must be something important in this building if the Leaders were waiting for him as they were.

At the end of the hallway were a set of heavy doors, but they were not locked. He expected them to be, but when he pushed, they gave. The corridor he found himself was very different to the previous one. It was short and wide, and there was no furniture. It was completely stark, save for the steady lights evenly spaced in the ceiling and the rows of doors spaced widely apart along the walls. It was a sight that was completely different to the rest of the Community.

All the doors were closed save for the one at the far left. As Bilbo walked closer, a strange scent hit his nose. It was one he had only smelt very sparsely, one that clung to the Elderly and the Leaders alike. He remembered smelling it once, for the first time, on his mother. Shortly thereafter, at the next ceremony, she had been released Elsewhere. After a moment, he realised that it must be the _scent_ of Elsewhere – of departure. It cloyed along with the Leaders and had not been noticeable at all until that moment. It made something inside Bilbo deeply unsettled.

He did not know what Elsewhere was or how one got there, and he did not want to find out, but he would. The Leader had said that Thorin was _on his way to Elsewhere,_ but he did not say that Thorin was gone. There must still be a chance. It was a thought that Bilbo clung to. He was sure he would sense it if Thorin had gone to a place where he could not follow.

The door at the end of the hallway led to a dark room. Bilbo could not hear any noises coming from within it but there was a strange aura to the room that told him there were people inside. When he pushed the door open, there were in fact people present; they sat in two neat rows of chairs, twelve people in total, all either the Elderly or the Leaders, with their hands neatly folded. Before them was a glass room, walls clear to see through.

“Mr Baggins,” the familiar Leader spoke. She stood, her hands still clasped, to regard Bilbo with a closed expression.

Bilbo found that he could not look at her. Instead, his eyes were drawn towards the glass room. It was plain except for a strange chair planted in the centre, hooked up to a machine that beeped slowly. There were wires that slid from the machine to the chair and back, and caught between them all was Thorin.

Bilbo’s heart began to race. His eyes scanned Thorin’s form, taking in everything he possibly could with a keenness he had only gained from being a Mender. Thorin’s skin was pale, and there were dark rings around his closed eyes. For all intents and purposes he looked peaceful, but his shoulders and his arms were tense; veins pressed against his skin where his muscles were prominent, and there was a slight downturn to his lips that was only just noticeable. He was struggling; pulled taunt, restless, and yet…

He hardly looked _alive._

Bilbo turned his eyes on the Leader. He felt like glass himself; one meagre push and he would shatter into a thousand pieces. Any who would walk over him would surely cut their feet. “What have you done to him?” He demanded.

Leader lifted her chin. It was as though she were balancing a ball on the very tip of it. “He is on his way Elsewhere now.”

A breath got caught in Bilbo’s throat. He turned back to the glass cage and really _looked._ The wires were connected to Thorin’s skin, pressed in with needles that glinted under the bright lights. He’d seen needles like that before – both in the Mending Centre and in memories of drug addicts and vaccinations and euthanasia. Connected to wires and tubing as they were, however, meant something different.

In the memories of The Before, Menders – called Doctors – had done much the same to cure horrific ailments. Many of those diseases were classed as _cancer_ and it was not often that the patient would survive. The medicines of The Before were powerful, but not infinite. In The After there was no need for such things because those who were ill were sent Elsewhere. In The Before they had not killed like this. They had not killed the innocent.

“You would kill him for loving me?” Bilbo turned to the Leader. He had one hand pressed against the glass, but he forgot when he had placed it there. “You would murder in the name of perfection? Of order?”

“Love is an imperfection. A trick of the mind. It does not truly exist,” Leader said. She sounded as if she truly believed it.

“You know nothing of the world,” Bilbo said. Something hot dipped from his chin. “You know not of love, nor sadness, nor imperfection. You think you erase it, when really you erase nothing but your humanity.”

“Why do you cry?” An Elder stood. Her hair was long and white, but her eyes were warm with confusion. “Why do you mourn that boy? He is going Elsewhere.”

Bilbo’s eyes flashed. The world, for a moment, rippled. It was like a wall had ascended above his mind, and he was suddenly so tired he wanted to cry. Why must they involve Thorin in Bilbo’s mistakes? Why must they punish him so for making them? He was only _human._

“Elsewhere is death,” he spat. His words burned in his throat and he suddenly felt breathless at the emotions that drowned in his veins. “There is no Elsewhere. You are killing people – killing children, killing the treatable, even killing your family!” He hit his hand against the wall and clenched his fingers. “You are killing the person I value more than my own self and you are telling me there is nothing I can do about it. That I am to watch him… watch him…” The words would not come; they hurt him far too much.

One by one, a strange look overcame the faces of the people who stared at him. Bilbo could feel a tugging on his mind and he did not resist it. It washed over him, through his heart and out of his chest in a wave he could not see. 

Echoes and impressions rang in his ears and before his eyes and he could not stop them, not even if he wanted to. He saw The Before, The After. The Present, too. He felt the anguish of those who had lived through war and those who fought against death and lost. He felt their pain at leaving the vulnerable and the aching behind. He felt the silent suffering of those too afraid or too small or too beaten down or too prideful to ask for any help. He felt the drifting hole in his chest rip open once more because if Thorin was gone, truly gone, then he would be too. He would sink into that deep realm of thick darkness where breathing was a conscious decision and not a natural action. He would fade into memory, unimpressionable, and be lost to the void where the suffering went.

Perhaps that was truly _Elsewhere._

Perhaps it was nothing.

And they saw it too. The Elders and the Leaders, those who had witnessed a hundred or more Elsewheres, they saw what he saw. They saw people dancing and colourful fireworks and children being born and the gentle way the sun would peer above the horizon. They heard the first call of a bird at morning and the sound of wind chimes and laughter and the buzz of a summer fly as it whizzed past their heads. They smelt the rain when it had just come and when it had just gone. They saw fireflies and buckets full of seashells left to rest in foot-trodden sand. They saw messy desks and messy beds and messy hair. They saw goodnight kisses and magic kisses pressed to scraped knees and secret kisses to those who were sleeping and first kisses. They saw last kisses, too. They saw the longing of a kiss not yet given, nor ever given, and Bilbo was sure that that memory, that very one, was his own. 

They saw what was good, what _had been_ good. They saw what had made war and death and anguish and sadness and darkness born from restless minds _worth_ it. They saw how all of the bad things that The After had erased were not truly gone, and that they hid behind things like Elsewhere and glass walls and proper language. They saw what it was like to be The Holder; the loneliness, the honesty so brutal that there would forever be scars upon his heart, the love of a soulmate. They saw, that above all, there was one thing that was worth suffering for. 

It was not perfection.

It was a connection.


	27. SIX

When it became clear that those in the room were now otherwise _incapacitated,_ Bilbo turned to the glass room. The machine hooked up to Thorin was still beeping, though it was slowing with each second. He looked for the way in and found the door only by the barely noticeable fissures in the glass. When he ran his hand along the edge the door popped open with a small hiss and slid aside.

The scent of _departure_ was strong in the glass room. He did not wish to enter, and recoiled at the strong scent on the air. Nothing, however, would keep him from going to Thorin’s side, foul scent and all. He went to Thorin without thinking and reached for Thorin’s still hand with trembling fingers. 

Thorin’s hand was cold. His veins were prominent through his skin, and Bilbo traced his fingers down one to the point of a needle, which he promptly removed. He did not know what anything in the needles was or had been, but he did know one thing; removing it would not be detrimental to Thorin’s health. Nothing they were putting in him would heal him, but rather, it would offer him nothing less than the exact opposite. 

And so one by one Bilbo traces the wires to Thorin’s skin so that he may pull them out. They dripped a translucent liquid somewhat thicker than water without a vein to go into. Bilbo left them hanging. When he pulled the last one away, the machine stopped beeping. For one frantic moment he thought that Thorin’s heart had stopped beating, but it hadn’t. When Bilbo slipped his hand under Thorin’s shirt collar to touch his throat he could feel it pulsing, just faintly. 

“He needs a Mender,” Bilbo said, straightening. He turned to look behind him, through the open glass door. Some Elders had recovered, but many were slumped, holding their heads or their mouths or pressing their hands over their eyes. “He needs a Mender,” Bilbo repeated, louder. He cradled the back of Thorin’s neck to lift his head, but there was no response. Thorin remained limp, and the sight of him brought tears to Bilbo’s eyes again.

He could not let them fall, not yet.

A gurney was brought in by one of the Elders. It was the woman with the long, white hair. Bilbo did not want to think about what the gurney was usually used for, and instead focused on moving Thorin onto it. Thorin was far heavier than he expected and it took a lot of huffing and groaning to move him, but Bilbo did it. 

The Elder caught his elbow as he began to push the gurney from the departure room. “I’m sorry,” she said. “All those people we sent Elsewhere…”

He wanted to be angry at her for what she had done. How many people had she killed with nothing more than a smile touching her face? They were all guilty of it, and when he thought about them having to bear that burden for the rest of their lives… Somehow, it negated his anger. They would already suffer for what they had done, and they did not need Bilbo’s anger to worsen it. That would change, however, if Thorin…

Bilbo shook his head to clear his maddening thoughts. Thorin was breathing, was living, and he needed medical attention. It was that that motivated him, that had him pushing the gurney from the room with haste and carefulness. Thorin had to live, or else he would take Bilbo’s heart with him to Elsewhere.

 

He was not allowed into the operating room as the most proficient Menders tried to fix Thorin. That did not stop him from anxiously pacing in front of the doors. The Menders had not argued with him when he had arrived with Thorin, but they had asked Bilbo what had happened to him. He did not know how to answer, so he told them the truth. _The Leaders tried to kill him, and now you must fix him._

Thorin must have been in there for at least an hour before someone came out to find Bilbo. He did not recognise the Mender, but then again, he hardly recognised anyone anymore. “How is he?” Bilbo asked.

“We have to give him two large blood transfusions,” the Mender said. “He displays symptoms of being poisoned, and it is not something we deal with often…”

Bilbo tried not to scowl. He already knew that poisonings were not common – the Community members were not given anything deadly, after all, but it still sometimes happened in some of the careers. When people became ill with disease they were sometimes treated with blood transfusions to take out the impurities in their system. It seemed reasonable that such a treatment might help Thorin.

“His heart rate is steadying, but he still has not woken,” the Mender finally said. “We do not know if he will.”

A deep breath escaped Bilbo’s lungs. Numbly, he nodded. “Anything else?”

The Mender paused to think before shaking their head. “No, other than that there is nothing more we can do for him. He has been transported to the patient ward, though I am sure you know where that is.”

Bilbo nodded and brushed past the Mender. He did not offer his thanks as he usually would have. He thought that if he spoke his words would only escape as cries. It was his fault that this had happened to Thorin. Had Thorin struggled when they injected him with the first needle? With the second, or the third? Had he asked for Bilbo, had he cried? 

Overwhelmed, Bilbo collapsed against the wall. He pressed his hand to his chest and tried to soothe himself with the feeling of his heart beating, but he could hardly feel it. His head was spinning and he choked on a sob before he could stop himself. He remembered, when he had first met Thorin, how a rift had seemed to open up between them. Somehow, Thorin had crossed it; closed it. Now, without him, that rift was opening again, and it was deep inside Bilbo, so far ingrained into him that he couldn’t scratch his way out of it.

He hugged himself tightly as he sunk down to the floor. Maybe if he held on tight enough he wouldn’t fall apart.


	28. THREE

Thorin did not wake. Bilbo waited a week by his bedside before more pressing matters drew him reluctantly away. He felt hollow without Thorin’s voice in his head, and even staying by his bedside for days on end had not helped to alleviate that awful feeling.

The memories were returning. Not just to the people he had affected, but to others, too. It started in the children – the Ones and Threes. Though it was hard to tell at first, they began to wake from dreams and nightmares featuring things they could not explain. He did not know what had caused it, but he thought it might have something to do with his outburst. It was the beginning of the outbreak.

All the previous Holders had been controlled. From what he could tell from the memories he had seen, Bilbo knew that losing one’s soulmate shut off certain mental pathways. Not only did it remove the ability to share thoughts and memories with another person, but it also lessened one’s ability to feel emotions. He thought that the sadness of it was so great that nothing else could touch one’s heart. 

Perhaps that was why this sudden outbreak of memory had never occurred before. In taking away the soulmates of the Holders, their ability to extend memory had been completely removed. It felt unnecessarily cruel to cause such pain to a person in the name of perfection. 

But it could not be stopped. He was too agitated, and even if Thorin never woke, it had already begun. The confusing emotions in him were only adding fuel to the fire, and even if he were to shut them off it had already begun to blaze. He did not think there was a way to stop it, just like there had been no way to start it. It felt inevitable. Uncontrollable. Imperfect.

He did not even begin to try.

Sharing memories would not necessarily do any good to the Community, but he could not allow it to continue as it had been. It would offer a chance to change. All he could do was monitor it, and after much insistence from the Leaders, that was what he did. Although it anguished him to leave Thorin’s side, it was far more painful to stay. He was used to being _useful;_ he had worked as a practitioner in the Mending Centre for so long, and even after he had been assigned his career he had been learning and working and _busy._

Now he was not.

And so he made himself useful. He was given his old office to work in, and returned to it with much averseness. It did not please him to return to the room, nor did it offer him any comfort. It felt incredibly foreign, but he supposed it had its uses. 

Those who began to receive memories were transferred to him. One by one he would catalogue who came to see him for his own reference, and then he would help them. There was a part of him that instinctively knew what to do; even if he no longer understood the Community members, he understood the memories. He held the wrists of those who came to him in his hands and showed them something good, something that would no frighten them. He offered them relief from whatever had been taunting them, and worked out a way to block the bad things from coming just yet.

He could not stop the nightmares for they were a thing of the mind, but he could control the bad memories. He was a Holder of Conscious, after all. 

Soon enough there were new people coming in every hour. Now that he was not constantly worrying over Thorin’s bedside it was easy to forget his troubles. That was one thing the Community was still good for, it seemed. He could lose himself in giving memories for hours, and that was what he did. When he was reliving the happiness of others it was easy to become lost in a world that no longer existed.

Another week passed. Bilbo spent more time in memories than out of them as he tried to quell the rising fear amongst the Community members. Unrest was beginning to surface and not even the Leaders could control it. They did not know how to. Bilbo did not know, either. He could only sort through the memories and hope to prevent the bad ones from surfacing. As much as he had come to despise the Community and its values, he did not want innocent people to suffer from the nightmarish things he had.

It was the same way he had treated Thorin, and why he had never told Thorin all about the dark things that lurked in his mind. He had not deserved that sort of treatment, and neither did the Community members.

At the end of the second week, Bilbo was thoroughly and achingly exhausted. He had been refusing treatment or examination from the Menders for days now, but he knew he had reached his limits. His mind felt strung out and pulled tight, and he feared that any semblance of balance he had would soon be destroyed if he carried on.

He retired to Thorin’s room. He could not bring himself to leave the Mending Centre, not even to return to find clean clothes or to bathe. He took care of all of that in the patient ward and accepted whatever clothes were brought to him by a thoughtful Community member or two.

He settled down beside Thorin’s bed as he let the tension drain from his shoulders. Thorin was very pale and still and if not for the heart monitor steadily beeping Bilbo would fear that he had passed. He reassured himself that that had not yet happened, and calmed himself by delicately holding Thorin’s hand. 

“Wake up soon,” he whispered, as he pressed his lips to Thorin’s knuckles. “I need you to help me.”

Thorin did not respond, but Bilbo did not expect him to. He only sighed, and stood. He had dragged in a second bed from the adjoining room but it was cold and uncomfortable, and in a moment of weakness he crawled into bed beside Thorin. It was a tight fit but he did not attempt to move Thorin over. Instead, he curled up at the edge as best as he could, and kept a tight hold on Thorin’s hand. He hoped that some part of Thorin could sense he was there.

“Wake up soon,” he whispered again. “I can’t bear to be without you anymore.”


	29. TWO

The next time Bilbo succumbed to dreams without meaning to, they were not his own dreams. He knew from the moment he entered them that they could not possible be his; they didn’t feel the same, and although he was slightly stung by the surprising familiarity of it, he knew deep down that it was not his own mind he was in.

For what felt like hours he was trapped in scattered memories and short, sharp bursts of emotion. They came at random intervals and although he tried to mould them to his will they would not bend. He had no purchase on them, like they were too fast for him to grip. He could not make sense of what he was seeing. He hadn’t been so helpless since the first time he received memories, and it quickly overwhelmed him. 

When he finally woke, it was very early morning, and the moon had yet to fall. He was cold, and with a start he realised he had fallen asleep on Thorin’s bed. He still had Thorin’s limp hand clutched between his fingers. Nothing in Thorin seemed to have stirred or changed overnight, but Bilbo knew that it was Thorin’s dreams he had somehow fallen into. He guessed that dreams for those who were not Holders had to be very different to his own, especially if he was so lost in them. It had never been like that once he learned how to control his own dreams.

Absently he rubbed Thorin’s hand between his own, trying to bring warmth back into his skin. He was covered by a blanket but that did not necessarily mean he was warm, and Bilbo hated to think he’d wake up cold. He cautiously pulled the blankets tighter around Thorin, just in case.

If he was dreaming, that meant he was still alive. No matter how confusing his dreams had been, Bilbo took it as a positive sign. 

 

The next day, he returned to work. He had not slept as well as he would have liked after waking from Thorin’s dream, but he had things to do. It would be selfish of him to hide away when he would do nothing more than sulk by Thorin’s bedside. He knew the Menders would check in on him regularly, and that he’d give him frequent updates – he had asked them to, and they would not ignore a Holder’s request.

Especially not of late.

As the memories started to affect the Community members more, Bilbo wondered how he could possibly help them all. He did not know exactly how many people lived in his little world, but there had to be thousands, surely. He struggled enough as it was. There had to be some sort of solution to it all. 

And as much as he hated leaving the Mending Centre, he had to return to his home to find it. He did not trust a Community member to fetch him what he wanted because they would not be able to find it easily, and wasting any more time than necessary aggravated him. It was far easier just to return to the house himself.

He supposed that the bicycle ride to his home had helped to clear his mind. The fresh air felt good in his lungs and alleviated the ache in his temples. Still, he was quick to find what he needed and return to the Community, books in tow. That included _Renascence. defuse_ – instead it “infected” the Community members who had no barrier against it.

In many ways, it was like a disease. 

There wasn’t really a cure for it. Generally, from what he could tell, the outbreak was controlled – there used to be people who had the ability to control memories, much like Holders, but there was more than one. They would do what Bilbo was doing; create a wall and redirect the flow of memories away from something unfavourable.

He had yet to figure out how to do that on a large scale, but his mind kept returning to what Thorin had once mentioned. If his soulmate really did enhance his abilities, then perhaps he would be able to accomplish what he needed to.

Of course, he needed Thorin to do that. No matter how hard he thought about it, he always ended up with his mind turned back to him. It was endlessly draining to think of Thorin so much – he was exhausted by it, so much so that he ignored multiple requests from the Leaders. While he understood their concern and their anger, he did not have the energy to deal with them.

It was far easier to lock himself away in Thorin’s room.

The Menders said that Thorin’s vitals were steady. He was breathing better, and activity had returned to all of his nerves. The blood transfusions had removed most of the poison in his system, and after time had passed the remaining parts had been absorbed and flushed out naturally. 

All he had to do was awaken. 

Bilbo would be sure to be there when he did. If not in the office, he was in Thorin’s room. He knew he had gained pitying looks from those who had received memories, and even those who had not, but he did not care. Thorin had come to mean more to him than the Community did. Perhaps they would soon realise that and stop treating him as though he were a tragedy. 

The next time he dreamed Thorin’s dreams, it became easier to control them. He anticipated what would happen and acted accordingly. Instead of twisting the emotions or turning them on themselves to stop their momentum, he merely redirected them. He could not control Thorin’s dreams like he controlled his own, but that did not mean he could not control them at all. 

He hated to think it, but it really was all a matter of control. It left him uneasy and restless, but he did not know a better name for it. Controlling memories was like exercising a muscle and he had not had much practice yet.

Still, he was sure he would figure it out. Sinking into Thorin’s dreams and controlling the retrieval of memories that the Community members experienced were one in the same. 

“You’ll wake up soon,” he told Thorin as he sat on the edge of the bed. Every night he smoothed Thorin’s hair away from his forehead and held onto his hand. It was more to comfort himself now, he thought. “I think I’ve finally figured out a way to help everyone, but I can’t do it without you.”

There was no reply, but he was becoming used to the silence.


	30. ONE

Despite his initial apprehension, _Renascence_ proved to be the most interesting of the books he scoured through. It wasn’t because the memories contained in the pages were anything more intriguing than those in other books, but there was something about them that Bilbo found himself drawn to. Perhaps it was due to mutual experience. Although it pained him to see so many Holders be beaten down and controlled, he felt a connection to them.

Without Thorin’s voice in his head, their words were comforting. 

Some of the previous Holders had left memories of their soulmates in _Renascence._ Though none knew about the origins of the SoulBand, they had all received one from the previous Holder prior to becoming a Holder themselves. From that, Bilbo concluded that the SoulBand not only opened the pathway to a soulmate, but it also awakened one’s ability to receive and transmit memories. There were not many people who were capable of doing both, and even less in the Community, so it made sense that there had only ever been one Holder at a time.

It was night when Bilbo finished _Renascence,_ with the exception of the latest Holder’s memories. He could still not bring himself to witness them, not until they became less… raw. It had only taken him a few days to finish the entire thing, but he’d neglected everything else in favour of doing so. Although he had taken patients for several hours a day, he had avoided sleeping and eating to read. There was one thing, however, he could no longer avoid – the Leaders.

They were insistent and forceful, and by the time Bilbo was ready to attend to their wishes they had sent Disciplinary Officers to escort him. The Officers were cold and silent and regarded him with a weariness that he had since become used to amongst the Community members. He wondered if they knew that the sudden outbreak of memory was his fault. They must assume, surely. Who else could it have been?

He was taken to the office of the Leaders again. The smell of departure still lingered, and it made his stomach churn. The halls felt deceptively cold, as though no one had walked through them in a week. He left the escorts behind at the main doors and instead went to the personal office of the Leader that he had dealt with the most. 

She was seated behind her desk when he pushed the glass doors open, and did not look up. Light Hair and the fifth Leader who he had yet to ever speak to were standing by the windows behind the desk. Soft Voice and Sharp Eyes were nowhere to be seen.

“You have caused quite a problem for us,” Leader said as she regarded him with indifferent eyes. “Our fellow Leaders had yet to recover from your attack.”

Bilbo flinched at the harsh wording. He had not considered what he had done to the other two Leaders to be an _attack._ To them, he supposed it would be. “I believe you caused most of these problems yourself,” he murmured. “I am trying to fix the current problems as fast as I can but your actions hinder me.”

Leader narrowed her eyes, clearly irritated, but it was the new leader – the male with a badge pinned to his respectable jacket – that spoke. “I do not doubt it,” he said, “but the unrest you have caused cannot go unpunished, and unexplained. Unfortunately the burden of both those consequences falls not to us, but to you, Holder.”

“My name is Bilbo,” he said sharply.

Badge dipped his head in apology once, but did not verbalise it. Perhaps he, too, had been affected by memories.

“The outbreak of memory, to the best of my knowledge, can be contained,” Bilbo said, “but I do not think it should be completely halted. You might disagree with me, but I think the Community is long overdue for an upheaval.”

“Do you not understand how much trouble that would cause?” Leader asked. “That cannot happen.”

“It already is,” he said. “And you cannot stop it. You do not have the capabilities nor the knowledge, and if you think that I will stop it at your request then you are sorely mistaken.”

Light Hair turned to face him. “Then what do you propose? You must know that we cannot let this go on for much longer.”

Bilbo paused, frowning. “If Thorin does not wake, then I cannot solve anything,” he said. He glanced out of the windows behind the desk and was briefly reminded of the window in the bottom of the Holder’s house. He never really knew what it looked out on. “What is out beyond what we can see?” He asked. “Perhaps your answers lie out there.”

“We do not need those answers,” Leader argued.

“You do,” Bilbo said, “because all of my answers lie in Thorin and what he offers me. You do not have the same connection to anyone. I’m telling you the truth – I know I can control the outbreak of memory, but I cannot control what the people choose to do with it. That is for you to decide, especially if you intend to maintain your authority.”

Leader stood. “That is not a good enough answer!”

“It is all I can give!” He snapped. “You murdered the last Holder, and you put my soulmate in a coma. What more do you expect me to be able to do when I have nothing but books to learn from? I’m _trying,_ and I think it is about time you did the same!” Frustrated, he turned to the glass doors. “Do not bother me again until you begin to receive memories. You’re useless to me otherwise.”

 

That evening, something woke Bilbo in the middle of the night. He laid in bed for several moments wondering what it was, as nothing seemed out of place. The windows were still shut, the doors still closed, and he had not kicked his blankets off. He did not need the bathroom, and he was not thirsty, and his sleep had not been plagued by nightmares or dreams of any sort.  
It took a moment for him to realise that it was Thorin.

Quietly, he slipped out of bed and made his way to Thorin’s side. He did not seem to have stirred at all, but Bilbo could sense something was changing. He reached for Thorin’s hand and cradled it between his own, hoping that Thorin could sense him.

“Thorin?” He tried, voice quiet. “Thorin, can you hear me? Will you wake up, now?”

He waited for a reply, or for some sort of sign, but nothing came. His heart sunk more and more as his eyes searched Thorin’s face for signs of movement, and then, just faintly, he felt Thorin’s hand twitch. A strange fluttering overcame him as his breath caught in his throat.

“Thorin,” he whispered, tightening his fingers around Thorin’s hand, “please wake up. I really need you.”

Tears burned in his eyes when nothing happened. He waited several moments, but Thorin’s hand remained still. It was like nothing had changed, and unbidden, Bilbo felt himself begin to cry. He was careful not to disturb Thorin as he inched onto the side of the bed. He felt weak and tired and vulnerable and lonely and he just wanted Thorin to tell him that they would work it all out eventually.

 

When he woke, his eyes were swollen and his lips were dry but he was _warm._ There was a heavy weight draped around his waist and a thick warmth pressed against his back and the moment he realised it he knew _exactly_ what it was. 

“Thorin…?” He croaked, twisting around to peer behind him. 

Thorin’s eyes were closed but they fluttered at the sound of Bilbo’s voice and with a groan, those dark blue irises appeared. He groaned again at the light and reflexively his arm tightened around Bilbo’s waist. Bilbo could feel him beginning to spill back into his place in Bilbo’s mind and although he seemed too tired to form words, his presence was _there._

“You’re awake,” Bilbo whispered, tearful. He turned in Thorin’s arms with more enthusiasm than he meant to and threw his arms around Thorin’s neck. It was a tight fit in the bed but that didn’t stop him from pressing closer. There were hiccups in his chest that he tried to hide in the crook of Thorin’s neck.

Thorin’s hand came up to cradle the back of his head. “Why are you crying?” he whispered. His voice was rough with misuse and it rumbled deeply in his chest. 

Bilbo only shook his head. The words were getting stuck in his throat. “I’m sorry,” he whimpered pitifully, “I let this happen to you.”

Absently, Thorin ran his fingers through Bilbo’s hair, carefully avoiding tangles. “I do not understand,” he whispered, “but please, tell me what has upset you. I hate to see you cry.”

Bilbo managed a weak laugh. Even in his condition, after everything that had happened, Thorin still tried to comfort him. “I love you,” he said. He lifted a hand to touch Thorin’s cheeks, eyes watery. “I love you a lot.”

Thorin startled at his words. His eyes searched Bilbo’s face before he pressed their forehead together. “I love you too,” he whispered.


	31. ZERO

“I was asleep for three weeks?”

“More or less,” Bilbo nodded, frowning bitterly. He kept a tight hold on Thorin’s hand even though he had finished explaining everything that had happened, and was sure to monitor Thorin’s mind as closely as he could without Thorin realising. Thorin looked somewhat disturbed but beneath that was a restless and worried mind that Bilbo was doing his best to soothe.

“Everything is changing, isn’t it?” Thorin sighed. He leaned back against his pillows, propped up at the head of the bed, and looked out of the windows across from them. “I cannot tell if it is for the better or not, yet.”

Bilbo ribbed his hand comfortingly. “Neither can I,” he said, “but I think change would have inevitably occurred. It just so happened to occur while we are around.”

Thorin nodded, and squeezed Bilbo’s hand in return. “Do you think your idea will work?”

It was an odd question, surely. Thorin had never doubted the connection their minds had before, and had even been the one to suggest that he himself was able to further it. “I think it would be a good idea to try,” Bilbo said. “I could not find any other solution.”

Thorin nodded again. For the first time, Bilbo wondered if Thorin had the same belief in his words that he had for Thorin’s. In the situation he guessed that it was he that had to be the strong, immovable one. It did not feel so hard when Thorin was so vulnerable. 

 

It took a week for Thorin to regain his strength. He was uncomfortable in the Mending Centre, and Bilbo did not blame him, so they moved back to the Holder’s house. Bilbo supposed it was their house now. While Thorin slept and recovered, Bilbo cleaned, or he took patients. They came to the house and sat in the reception room, though they went no further. 

When Thorin was up and about, Bilbo introduced him to _Renascence._ As far as he was aware, only Holders could read it. If Thorin really would be able to enhance Bilbo’s abilities, then Bilbo should be able to do the same for him, too – if it was possible, then he would be able to read _Renascence._ It was an experiment.

The first time Bilbo had Thorin sit in on one of his appointments, it was when a child was brought in. The young girl was only eight years old and her eyes were incredibly troubled as she glanced around at the room. Bilbo had developed a sense for what sort of memories the people who came to him experienced, and he knew that this girl’s dreams had been plagued by nothing good. 

He had her sit on a couch across from him. Her posture was good, and she seemed perturbed by the hunch in his shoulders and the relaxed way he sat, but Bilbo did not mind. Her hands were small in his. He had Thorin place a hand on his shoulder before he delved into the mind of the girl.

She’d dreamed of slums. Bilbo could still see impressions of them in her mind – of dirt and the homeless and desolate buildings long since abandoned. It was a hopeless scene, one overlaid in nothing but grey and dampness. Compared to the clean, sharp white of the Community, it was incredibly morose.

He set up a wall easily. Having Thorin in his head made the experience very different – it was quicker, and smoother. He felt like he could focus more with Thorin there, like it was easier to see the things he needed to do. There was less of a struggle.

It was small, but it was noticeable. When he surfaced from the memory the girl was unconscious, as they all were after he helped them. Her parents took her home and then Bilbo was left seated in his living room, letting his mind settle back into place again. 

“Is that what you have been doing all this time?” Thorin asked. He looked as tired as the little girl had been.

“Yes,” Bilbo said. “Did that make you fatigued?”

Thorin nodded. “I feel drained,” he said. “That was oddly tiring.”

“I understand,” Bilbo said. “But I think it worked.”

Thorin’s eyes brightened. “Did it?”

“It was easier this time,” Bilbo said. “Faster, too. I think my theory is correct, and employable.”

“I tire too easily,” Thorin pointed out with a frown.

“It’s an exercise,” Bilbo said. “If you’re willing to continue, I am positive your stamina will increase.”

“Of course I’m willing,” Thorin said. He drew Bilbo closer, and together they rested back against the couch comfortably. “I’m sorry that I have not been here to help you,” he said.

Bilbo shook his head and turned his nose into Thorin’s neck. “It wasn’t your fault,” he reminded him. “I am just relieved that you woke. I was afraid… afraid that you wouldn’t.”

Thorin rested his cheek against the top of Bilbo’s head. He did not say anything, but he didn’t need to. Bilbo could sense what his feeling, and he hoped that Thorin could tell that Bilbo harboured no ill feelings over what had happened. He himself felt guilty about placing Thorin in such a situation, but there was little to be done about it now. 

“I think I remember hearing you, when I was asleep,” Thorin abruptly murmured. “I could feel you in my head again, but it was like I was frozen. I could hear you asking me to come back, and I couldn’t.”

Bilbo glanced up at him. Thorin looked so troubled that Bilbo’s heart clenched agonizingly tight. He reached up a hand to cup Thorin’s cheek. “It’s alright,” he whispered. “You came back.”

“I left you alone,” Thorin said. He closed his eyes as if looking at Bilbo pained him. “I could feel that in your mind just now – you were so _alone_ Bilbo, and it is my fault that you were like that. You’ve had to suffer so much because I was unable to help you. With the Leaders, the Community members, the memories…”

Bilbo turned Thorin’s face back towards him and did not speak until Thorin lifted his eyes. “You came back,” he said.

Thorin’s eyes wavered for a moment before Bilbo felt a rush of forgiveness flood his mind. If Thorin could forgive himself for what had happened, then Bilbo could, too. Without the weight of what that had been pressing down on him, Thorin slumped in relief. He lifted his hand to hold Bilbo’s chin much the same way Bilbo did, and without hesitation he brought their lips together.

It was a chaste kiss, only a tentative, lost brush of lips, but it warmed a part of Bilbo that had always been cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think there's one more chapter before this is done :)
> 
> I have no idea what to write next, ahhh ^_____T


	32. EPILOGUE

As time progressed, so too did Bilbo’s abilities. At first he could expand his mind into two people, rather than one, and then three, then five. He needed Thorin to do it, had to have some part of Thorin pressed against his skin and Thorin heavily present in his mind, but it was workable. It was possible.

When a letter came from the Leaders requesting his presence, as well as Thorin’s – it was not the first letter that had come – Bilbo sent one back. He had no time for their antics, and had no desire to devise a political scheme that could be implemented to help the Community. It was not his place, nor did he had the capabilities. 

As a Holder, he could only advise them, and that was what he wrote in the letter. He had to do some things on his own, without them peering over his shoulder, and likewise there were things he could not help them with. The amount of people he had to aid could not be overridden by their inconsistent wants. 

The more he used his ability, the easier it became. Soon he thought he was much like people he saw in the memories of The Before; the ones who stopped memory outbursts. It made him wonder how much longer it would be before the next Holder was around, and what would happen to him when they started to develop the same abilities as he. There needn’t only be one Holder anymore.

“Bilbo, have you read this?”

He accepted the book Thorin passed over with a small shake of his head. “No, what is this one about?”

“It has a possible theory for the appearance of soulmates,” Thorin said. He placed a hand on the back of Bilbo’s chair to lean over his shoulder. “Here, this passage. In The Before, they didn’t need SoulBands to replicate the bond that soulmates develop. Apparently, it developed naturally.”

Bilbo’s eyebrows went up. “That certainly is interesting,” he said. He set the book down on the table and gave it a considerate look. “It would be nice if we gained that ability again.”

“I take it you don’t understand SoulBands,” Thorin mused.

Bilbo shook his head. “No, The Holder did not tell me,” he said. Absently, he turned his left wrist over, eyeing it. “I do not even know what it is, or what it looks like, never mind where he kept them or how to insert them.”

“I suppose they will always be a mystery, then.”

“I suppose so,” Bilbo agreed. 

Thorin laughed to himself quietly, and reached around to lightly grip Bilbo’s chin in his hand. “Be careful not to overwork yourself, alright?” He said as he pressed a gentle kiss to Bilbo’s cheek. “Shall I refill your tea?”

It was easy to work with Thorin like this. Perhaps it was more living than work, now. It was routine; comfortable. He had grown used to Thorin’s presence and Thorin’s touch and the weight of Thorin sleeping beside him. It was familiar, and comforting.

He was rather helpful in research matters, too. As Bilbo gained more strength, Thorin’s abilities became more pronounced. He could sink into passages and paragraphs from _Renascence_ now, though he was unable to read an entire page uninterrupted, or without Bilbo’s guidance. Still, for the amount of time it had been since he woke, Bilbo was pleased with his progress. With their progress. Soon the Leaders would have to decide where the Community focused its efforts, and then their lives could completely begin. 

That evening, when the sun had begun to lower itself over the horizon, Thorin asked Bilbo out on a walk. Bilbo would never deny Thorin anything he asked for, so he left his lukewarm tea and open books laid across the desk. 

“Don’t you think the colours look brighter now?” Thorin asked, as they wandered down The Holder’s road away from the Community. They had never explored where the road went – no one ever had. Bilbo thought that it might go on forever and ever, never to end.

“I think they are,” he said. The sun was orange and the trees were green and the sky was blue, more so than they ever had been. “Perhaps we notice it more, now.”

Thorin smiled to himself. It was a secret smile, one that said he thought something Bilbo had said was amusing, or charming. He wore that smile quite often. “Perhaps so,” he agreed. He reached for Bilbo’s hand and held it as they walked. “I wonder where the road goes.”

“I wonder, too.”

Thorin turned out to survey the horizon. It was the same view that they had out of the window in the bottom of the house, unmarred by the Community and its buildings. They could see the agricultural fields where food for the community was grown, but beyond that was nothing but an endless expanse of clouds. They blanketed the Earth like an obscuring mist, thick and white, but it no longer begged them to turn their glances away.

“You’re curious,” Thorin observed, giving him an entertained stare. “About what is beyond what we can see. I can sense it.”

Bilbo laughed. “I still do not understand how you do that so attentively,” he said. “I cannot read you so quickly, or so perceptively.”

Thorin only grinned. “I am very in tune with your thoughts, that is all,” he said. He sounded oddly proud of himself. “I enjoy reading your emotions.”

Bilbo flushed. “How devious of you.”

That grin remained.

“I do wonder, though,” Bilbo conceded, “about what is out there. The Leaders may decide to see for themselves.”

Thorin hummed.

Bilbo leaned into his side, and held onto his arm as they came to a stop. They stood towards the edge of the road where, a little ways away, their world dropped off into a small cliff that led down to the fields. Thorin was warm and steady beside him. “I hope there a good things out there,” he whispered. “Good memories.”

Thorin rubbed a comforting hand down his arm. “I’m sure there are,” he said. He was quiet for a moment. “You want to go on that adventure, don’t you?”

Bilbo startled, and turned his eyes up to meet Thorin’s. He had enjoyed the memories of adventures from The Before, but he did not want to go anywhere without Thorin. If that meant staying in the Community when the time came to leave, then he was willing to do so. There wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for Thorin.

Still, Thorin only laughed. “It is an adventure I wish to go on, too,” he confided, smiling sheepishly. “Even more so if you accompany me.”

This time, it was Bilbo who grinned. He held onto Thorin tighter as they watched the sun settle down behind the horizon. “Shall we go on an adventure, then?”


End file.
